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NE¥-TOHKs 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEAVITT  &   ALLEN, 


37  DEY  STREET 


CONTENTS. 


Preface, 

Henry  Morley,       .... 
Rambles  about  London, 
The  Old  Brick  Church  Yard, 
Spring,       .... 
Novel  "Writers  and  Readers, 
The  Brother's  Farewell, 
Battle  of  Monmouth, 
Education  of  Females, 

The  Novice, 

The  Years,  .... 

Adaptation  of  Intellect, 
The  Tale  of  an  Italian, 

Death,  

The  Mother  of  President  Edwards, 

English  Notabilities, 

Evening,  .... 

Three  Days  in  the  Appenines, 

To  a  Mother,      .... 

The  Hostile  Brothers,     . 

Henry  Nelson, 

Summer  Moonlight  Hour, 

Influence  of  Circumstances, 

Retribution,  .... 

Christraaa  Eve,  .         .        . 

The  Waldensea,       .... 

Fading  Scenes  Recalled, 

"Washington's  Farewell  to  his  Officers, 

Notes  on  my  Travels, 

Tlie  Dragon  of  Vincennes, 

Valley  and  Church  of  Bobi, 

Trust  in  God, 

The  Victim  of  Consumption, 

Kenilworth  Castle, 

The  Past,  .... 

Gold  Threads,         .        . 

Faith,  .         .       '. 

Shadow,  .... 

Benevolence,       .... 

The  Blossoming  Vine,     ,         , 

The  Battle  of  Salabertrann, 


PAGE.    . 

5  ?  The  Firmament^ 

6  I  The  Doctor's  Story,     . 
13  I  The  Poet's  Heart, 

15  5  Conversion  of  St.  Paul, 

11  >  English  Cities, 

18  <  The  Mississippi, 

21  5  Carlyle  and  his  Imitators, 

22  >  Paix  a  Vous, 

.       27  \  Stray  Thought?,      . 
31  <  Invocation  to  Peace, 

39  \  The  Grave-Stone, 

40  >  The  Young  Gleaner, 

43  (  Stanzas,  .... 

47  <  The  Farm  Fence, 

48  S  The  Valley  of  Prajelas, 

49  >  A  Mother  is  at  Rest, 

52  }  Marannis, 

53  <  Valley  of  Sweet  "Waters, 
63  s  Scenes  in  the  East, 

63  >  Siege  and  Defence  of  Balsille, 
68  ?  Father  and  Daughter, 

71  <  God  seen  in  his  "Works 

72  s  Two  men  and  Two  Countries, 
76  )  Unseen  but  not  Dead, 

83  >  Catskill  Mountains, 

85  i  Reals  and  Ideals, 

87  <  Song 

92  s  Modern  Witchcraft,  . 

93  <  Tlie  Royal  Execution,     . 
96  }  The  "Wayfaring  Laborer, 

.    102  I  Rambles  in  "Wales, 

104      The  Medical  Student, 
.     105  I  Before  the  Wind, 

111  I  Register  of  a  New- York  Lawye 
.     114  ^  Roman  Children, 

115  I  Adelaide, 
.     117      The  St  Regis  Indians, 

118  The  Suicide, 
.     118  I  Meeting, 

119  ^  Thy  will  be  done, 
.     120  i  The  Vesper  Bell,    . 


PAGE. 

122 
123 
134 
135 
137 
139 
140 
116 
147 
149 
150 
153 
154 
1.54 
155 
157 
159 
161 
162 
169 
172 
176 
177 
181 
182 
183 
184 
186 
194 
197 
198 
201 
206 
207 
222 
224 
225 
227 
234 
235 
289 


^38903 


CONTENTS. 


The  Emigrants, 240 

My  Mother's  Birth-Day,         ...         243 
Hannah  More  and  Mde.  de  StaCl,        .        .     244 
Pope  Pius  IX.  and  Italy,        ...         247 
War,  .         .         .         .         .        .         .254 

The  Spectre  Haunted,  .        .  255 

Tribute  to  the  Departed,  .        .        .261 

The  Nun, 262 

Old  Traditions, 265 

Soul, 269 

To  Hesperus,               .        .        .        .        .     270 
Poor  and  Rich, 271 


A  Paper  on  Corals,     .        .        . 

Pioneer  Life, 

Poetry  of  the  Heavens, 

Byron  and  Shakspeare, 

Our  Cousins  across  the  Way, 

Invocation  to  the  Muse, 

Tlie  Sailor's  Widow, 

Passage  in  the  Life  of  a  Physician, 

Trust  not,  .... 

Sketches  of  Western  Life, 

The  Soul's  Unrest, 

Ocomo,  .        .        .        . 


PAGE. 

276 
278 
279 
280 

,  282 
287 

.  288 
289 
293 
294 

,  298 
299 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


1.  CEOSS  PUEP0SE8 

frontispiece. 

2.  MOUNT  VEENON,     . 

before  title. 

8.  SEEING,       .... 

.    ir 

4.  BEDFOED  SPEINQS,  . 

52 

6.  THE  WALDEN8E3, 

.      86 

6.  PEOTESTANT  CHUECH  AT  BOBI,. 

102 

7.  BATTLE  OF  SALABEETEANN, 

.    120 

a  THE  DOCTOE, 

188 

9.  THE  YOUNG  GLEANEE,          .          .  .153 

10.  VALLEY  OF  PEAJELAS,   .                      .  155 

11.  VALLEY  OP  SWEET  WATERS,          .  .    161 

12.  THE  BALSILLE,         ....  169 
18.  MEDICAL  COLLEGE  OF  GEOEGIA,  .    201 

14.  ST.  EEGIS  INDIAN  VILLAGE,    .           .  225 

15.  MOUNT  OF  OLIVES,       .           .           .  .247 
le.  THE  DEPAETUEE,    .           .           .          .  2S8 


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/^')    ^^#f ^  ~  T  is  the  design  of  the   Home  Annual, 
^  to  fill  a  place  in  lighter  literature  without  the 

objectionable  features  too  often  connected  with 
'  it.  In  this  department,  the  effort  has  been  too 
much  to  please  the  fancy,  without  cultivating 
the  feelings  or  enriching  the  mind.  Those 
exciting  love  tales  which  an"est  and  inflame  the  youthful  heart,  are 
apt  to  create  an  ideal  world  for  the  early  dreamer,  which  renders 
practical  life  insipid,  and  its  duties  irksome.  This  evil  has  become 
so  striking  and  apparent,  that  many  have  condemned,  without  dis- 
tinction, all  kinds  of  light  reading.  But  we  have  our  hours  of  re- 
laxation as  well  as  study — our  love  for  the  beautiful  as  weO  as  for 
the  substantial ;  and  it  is  poor  policy  to  give  up  the  world  of  taste 
to  those  who  will  abuse  it.  Nature  is  diversified  in  her  scenery ; 
there  are  the  solid  cliff  and  the  gi-aceful  vine  depending  from  its 
sides — the  substantial  wall,  and  the  flowers  it  encloses — the  thun- 
der-cloud and  the  rainbow — the  deep,  broad  river,  and  the  gi-ace- 
ful  rivulet — the  terrific  swoop  of  the  eagle,  and  the  arrow-like  dart  ^ 
of  the  swallow — all  attractive,  yet  all  diversified.  It  is  the 
same  in  the  wide  field  of  literature ;  and  if  we  reject  every 
thing  except  that  which  seems  made  for  mere  utility,  we 


r" 


■■-PI 


6 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


reject  h^lf  that  tba ' Deity  had  besto^-ed.  To 
refine  and  polish  is  a  part  of  our  work  in  this 
world.  The  mind  takes  its  hue  from  the 
outward  and  real;  and  its  inward  creations 
are  but  the  representation,  in  some  form  or 
other,  of  materials  which  the  Creator  has 
scattered  around  us  on  every  side.  If,  with 
such  a  furnished  storehouse  before  us,  we 
cannot  select  objects  of  beauty  and  taste  with- 
out sinking  into  the  tameness  of  essay  writing 
on  the  one  hand,  or  merging  into  the  insipid- 


ity and  folly  so  common  on  the  other  hand,  the 
fault  lies  in  ourselves  and  our  depraved  inclina- 
tions. 

Light  reading  has  become  widely  popular 
in  this  country,  and  an  extensive  medium 
through  which  thought  and  expression  are 
conveyed,  and  it  is  not  proper  or  wise  that  the 
religious  and  moral  world  should  surrender 
it  without  an  effort.  The  good  is  eveiy  where 
mixed  with  the  beautiful,  and  it  needs  only 
the  disposition  ever  to  keep  them  so  united. 


HENEY  MORLEY. 


A    THRILLING    INCIDENT. 


Few  who  lived  in  the  summer  of  1832  in 
this  country  can  ever  forget  it.  It  was  made 
terrifically  memorable  by  the  devastations  and 
woe  left  in  the  track  of  the  so-called  Asiatic 
Cholera.  I  well  recollect  the  intense  anxiety 
with  which  its  progress  through  Europe  was 
watched  by  almost  every  individual — the  terri- 
ble sensation  of  despair  the  news  of  its  arrival 
on  this  continent  created — ^the  expectation  in 
every  breast  of  its  soon  being  in  their  neigh- 
borhood, and  the  pang  with  which  the  certainty 
of  its  proximity  fell  upon  every  heart.  Vast 
multitudes  died  of  the  disease.  Still  greater 
numbers  died  of  fear,  or  at  least  of  the  disease, 
provoked  and  driven  rapidly  on  to  a  fatal  issue 
by  it.  My  notes  of  my  own  experience  furnish 
abundant  evidence  of  the  strong  predisposition 
which  fear  created  for  the  disease,  and  of  the 
speedy  termination  of  it  in  all  such  cases.  I 
see  the  names  of  strong  and  hale  men,  in  the 
pride  and  vigor  of  manhood,  men  who  would 
have  marched  up  fearlessly  to  the  cannon's 
mouth,  who  yet  quailed  and  towed  down  in 
turn  before  the  mysterious  foe  they  could  not 
see,  and  died  in  a  few  hours. 

The  scourge  fell  upon  all  places  alike.  It 
gave  no  notice  of  its  approach  ;  it  did  not  even 
creep  gradually  on  from  town  to  town,  but, 
having  done  its  fearful  work  in  one  city  or 
village,  fell  with  appalling  suddenness  upon 
some  distant  point,  and  men  rose  from  their 
beds  in  the  morning  to  learn  the  dreadful  news 
that  the  scourge  had  come.  It  despised  all 
quarantine  laws  and  health  regulations. 


J  I  was  appointed  health  officer  for  the  village 
in  which  I  lived,  and  regularly  boarded  every 
steamer  that  made  its  daily  approach  to  our 
wharves.  I  never  detected  a  case  of  sickness 
of  any  kind  on  board,  and  yet,  while  engaged 
in  the  performance  of  the  duty,  the  disease 
made  its  appearance  in  the  midst  of  the  place, 
under  such  circumstances  as  to  put  to  fault  all 
the  theories  of  contagionists. 

I  believe  no  class  of  men  was  exempt.  It 
fell  upon  all  alike.  At  least,  such  is  my  own 
experience,  and  few  saw  more  of  it  than  I  did. 
The  strong  and  vigorous,  the  sickly  and  weak, 
old  and  young,  beauty  and  deformity,  all  fur- 
nished their  victims  to  swell  the  hecatomb 
offered  to  the  destroyer.  No  precautions  could 
ward  off  the  attack.  The  drunkard  forsook  his 
cups,  or  the  glutton  began  a  life  of  abstemious- 
ness in  vain.  If  there  was  any  one  thing  more 
than  another  that  procured  exemption,  I  believe 
it  was  courage,  or  rather  fearlessness.  To 
this  I  attribute  my  own  escape.  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  disease  for  several  weeks,  and  saw 
it  around  me  in  all  its  horrors,  but  I  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  that  I  could  take  it  myself.  I 
should  scarcely  have  believed  it  if  I  had  found 
myself  laboring  under  the  symptoms  of  its  ap- 
proach. 

When  it  fell  upon  New  York  thousands  upon 
tliousands  fled.  The  city  was  desolate.  I 
well  remember  the  feeling  of  loneliness  witli 
which  I  was  oppressed  as  I  wandered  through 
parts  of  the  city  usually  the  most  frequented, 
now  desolate  and  deserted  ;  for  I  had  early  jrc- 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


paired  thither  to  see  the  disease  and  make  my- 
self familiar  with  its  character  and  treatment. 
I  frequented  the  public  hospitals,  and  was  con- 
stantly occupied  in  them,  day  and  night,  and 
now,  like  the  rest  of  my  profession,  I  must  con- 
fess an  utter  ignorance  of  the  true  character 
of  the  disease,  so  far  as  any  practical  know- 
ledge is  concerned.  It  is  yet  most  emphatically 
the  scourge  of  God,  whose  ways  are  hid  from 
man.  The  many  die  of  it ;  tlie  few  recover, 
and  they  scarcely  from  the  aid  of  medicine. 

With  what  information  and  experience  I  had 
acquired,  however,  I  was  as  well  prepared  as  I 

could  be,  when  I  was  called  to Prison, 

where  it  had  broken  out,  to  take  my  place  in 
the  hospital  there.  More  than  a  thousand  men 
were  confined  at  that  time  within  its  walls,  and 
it  was  expected  that  the  disease  would  find  food 
of  the  kind  best  suited  to  it  there.  It  did  rage 
terrifically.  In  the  short  space  of  thirty  days, 
more  than  eight  hundred  had  been  treated,  and 
of  that  number  about  ninety  had  died.  It  might 
have  been  expected  that  the  convicts  would 
have  been  driven  to  despair — that  they  would 
have  felt  as  if  they  wore  tied  up  to  certain 
and  inevitable  death,  and  so  would  have  been 
disposed  to  escape.  But  such  was  not  the 
case.  They  knew  the  whole  history  of  tlie 
progress  of  the  disease — I  know  not  how — and 
had  been  expecting  it,  and  when  it  came  I  ven- 
ture to  say  no  community  was  better  prepared 
for  it.  They  were  well  cared  for,  and  they 
took  good  care  of  each  other.  It  is  probably 
owing  to  this  that  the  record  of  that  hospital 
will  show  a  greater  per  centage  of  recoveries 
than  any  other  in  America  or  Europe. 

From  the  first  day  on  which  the  cholera  ap- 
peared in  the  prison  it  gradually  increased,  till 
at  almost  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night, 
some  new  subject  was  added  to  the  list.  At 
that  time  its  virulence  and  severity  was  such, 
that  almost  all  who  did  not  recover  died  in 
from  five  to  seven  hours  after  the  attack,  and 
some  as  early  as  in  three  hours.  The  distress 
and  anguish  were  such  as  to  appall  the  stout- 
est heart,  and  were  aggravated  not  a  little,  to 
the  looker  on,  by  the  fact  that  the  sufferers 
were  criminals  confined  in  hopeless  bondage, 
and  could  not  fly  from  this  still  terror.  This 
circumstance,  added  to  the  fear  which  it  served 
to  augment,  was  no  doubt  one  cause  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  the  disease ;  so  that  at  the 
end  of  a  month  it  had  expended  its  violence, 
and,  as  if  satiated  with  the  blood  of  its  victims, 
though  not  foiled  nor  conquered,  it  withdrew 


as  suddenly  'a§  it  nad  made  its'  descent.  It  ap- 
peared in  a  night,  and  it  vanished  in  a  night. 
On  the  evening  of  the  thirtieth  day,  with  the 
hospital  overflowing  with  patients,  every  ward 
filled,  and  every  bed  occupied,  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  most  terrible  thunder-storms  ever 
witnessed  in  this  country,  the  last  name  was 
added  to  the  list  of  victims,  and  in  a  few  days 
the  hospital  was  clear,  and  nothing  was  left  to 
tell  the  tale  of  how  fearful  a  pestilence  had 
swept  by.  It  passed  like  an  angel  of  wrath  on 
that  fierce  thunder-cloud,  and  returned  no  more. 

Among  the  large  number  of  convicts  at  that 
time  in  the  Penitentiary,  it  would  have  been 
wonderful  if  there  had  not  been  some  men  of 
education  and  talents.  Accordingly  there  were 
representatives  from  all  the  learned  professions. 
The  clergy  were  represented  by  two  individu- 
als, one  from  the  Presbyterian  and  one  from 
the  Methodist  Church ;  the  former,  a  young 
man  of  most  profound  knowledge  for  his  years 
— a  fluent  speaker  of  several  modern  languages, 
and  well  versed  in  the  ancient  classics.  The 
bar  sent  two  of  its  own  number  there — men  of 
no  small  eminence  at  the  time,  in  a  profession 
where  eminence  is  of  so  difficult  attainment. 
Our  own  profession  was  not  without  a  wit- 
ness. He  was  a  man  who,  under  favorable 
circumstances,  would  have  been  an  ornament 
to  the  science,  but  poverty  and  ambition  drove 
him  to  crime.  He  forged  his  own  father's 
name  to  a  note  of  hand,  and  his  own  father 
sent  him  to  prison.  There  was  a  quack  also 
there,  and,  I  doubt  not,  if  he  had  been  left  at 
liberty  he  would  have  been  a  prince  among  his 
fellows.  The  trade  was  not  as  prosperous 
then  as-  it  has  become  since  under  more  honor- 
able names,  and  he  took  to  stealing  to  increase 
his  income.  I  learned  the  histories  of  these 
individuals  from  their  own  lips  at  the  time,  and 
have  had  them  corroborated  since.  To  them 
the  prison  was  a  solitude  and  a  hell. 

On  the  seventeenth  day  of  the  prevalence  of 
the  disSase,  a  patient  was  presented  who  imme- 
diately attracted  my  attention.  I  will  not  at- 
tempt to  describe  any  peculiarities  in  his  person 
or  manner  which  struck  me.  It  may  have  been 
nothing  but  an  impulse  which  we  often  feel, 
driving  us  to  exercise  kinder  feelings  towards 
one  than  another.  I  know  that  I  spoke  to  him 
with  more  than  common  kindness  of  manner 
and  tone,  and  I  know  also  that  I  felt  at  once 
an  interest  in  him  which  had  been  excited  by 
no  other.  In  answer  to  my  inquiry  for  his 
name,  he  replied  in  a  distinct,  but  wonderfully 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


soft  tone,' '"  Henry' Morley.''"' Mb  was  affected 
with  some  of  the  sjTnptoms  which  generally 
preceded  a  severe  attack  of  the  cholera.  He 
made  no  complaints,  but  only  stated  his  symp- 
toms, and  that  the  keeper  had  directed  him  to 
apply  for  medical  aid.  I  made  the  usual  pre- 
scriptions and  dismissed  him,  and  amid  my 
ceaseless  duties  he  passed  from  my  mind. 

It  was  about  a  week  before  I  saw  him  again. 
He  was  then  brought  in,  prostrated  by  a  sudden 
and  severe  attack  of  cholera.  With  an  instan- 
taneous revival  of  even  more  than  my  former 
interest,  I  directed  every  care  to  be  taken  of 
him,  and  myself  paid  every  attention  to  him. 
Under  a  full  sense  of  the  severity  of  his  attack, 
he  was  calm  and  undisturbed,  and  seemed  to 
have  lain  down  to  die.  I  said  to  him  :  "  Mor- 
ley,  you  are  worse  than  when  you  were  here 
before." 

*'  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  Do  you  think  I  will 
die,  ioctor  ?" 

I  baid  I  could  not  tell-  -that  his  attack  was 
very  severe — but  we  would  do  all  we  could  for 
him. 

"  Oli !  do  not  try  to  encourage  me  with  hopes 
of  life— toll  me  that  I  shall  die — that  I  cannot 
recover-— that  there  is  no  hope  of  my  living — 
but  do  not  talk  of  getting  well  again.  I  do  not 
wish  to  live." 

I  could  not  forbear  a  gentle  reproof,  even 
under  circumstances  of  such  a  nature,  and 
feeling  that  much  depended  on  the  quiet  of  his 
mind  I  left  him  for  the  night,  having  given  the 
attendants  directions  to  spare  no  efforts  in  his 
case  through  the  night,  or  as  long  as  he  might 
live.     1  might  not  see  him  alive  again. 

I  cannot  better  continue  the  present  narra- 
tive than  by  referring  to  my  journal,  which  I 
kept  at  the  time,  for  the  history  of  this  case. 
It  is  as  follows,  omitting  notes  of  mere  prac- 
tice : 

Sunday  morning. — Morley  is  still  alive,  and 
I  think  his  desire  to  die  is  the  great  reason 
why  he  lives.  He  is  no  better,  but  in  the  utter 
prostration  of  body  under  which  he  suffers,  his 
mind  is  yet  active.  Such  is  not  usually  the 
case  in  this  disease.  As  I  approached  his  bed 
this  morning,  he  said  to  me  :  "  You  may  think 
me  very  foolish,  and  perhaps  mad,  to  utter  the 
wish  which  you  heard  last  night.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself,  doctor,  but  I  have  suffered 
80  much — so  much  !" 

♦'  But  you  suffer  no  more  than  these  thousand 
others,  your  fellows,  whom  like  circumstances 
have  subjected  to  the  same  fate,"  said  I. 


"  Oh !  you  mistake  me,  doctor,"  he  replied. 
"  It  is  not  this.  It  is  not  my  confinement — I 
would  not  murmur  if  justice  demanded  chains 
and  stripes.  It  is  not  this  marble  coldness  of 
body,  nor  these  cramps  which  rack  my  limbs 
like  torture.  Oh,  no  !  It  is  none,  nor  all  of 
these — it  is  that  one  crime — that  deep  disgrace 
to  myself — the  deeper  disgrace  to  my  religion. 
I  am  a  fallen  angel — and  I  fear  I  added  the 
crime  of  murder  to  my  other  sin." 

His  effort  and  excitement  overcame  him, 
and  I  left  him  to  the  care  of  his  nurses,  with 
orders  that  he  should  be  kept  perfectly  quiet. 
I  am  more  and  more  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  he  is  worthy  of  more  sympathy  than  the 
common  felon. 

5  o'clock  p.  M. — Nature,  or  constant  appli- 
cation of  efforts,  has  at  length  produced  a 
slight  change  for  the  better.  His  eye  is 
brighter,  and  the  cold,  marble-like  feeling  of  his 
body  has  given  place  to  a  gentle  warmth.  The 
cramps  have  ceased,  and  on  the  whole  his  gen- 
eral symptoms  are  all  more  favorable.  I  think 
he  may  yet  recover,  I  have  therefore  refused 
to  hold  any  conversation  with  him  for  the  pre- 
sent. 

Monday,  12  o'clock. — My  patient  is  decidedly 
better  to-day,  and  since  morning  has  made  con- 
siderable improvement.  I  regard  his  case  as 
one  to  strengthen  my  opinion  that  in  tliis  dis- 
ease especially  fear  is  a  powerful  exciting 
cause.  His  utter  indifference  to  it  has,  I  be- 
lieve, done  much  to  conquer  it.  I  told  him  I 
thought  he  would  now  recover  rapidly,  and  he 
replied :  "  And  yet  I  cannot  but  feel  a  regret  at 
the  prospect.  Were  I  free,  it  would  be  all  the 
same,  for  death  would  certainly  be  preferable 
to  this  anguish  under  which  I  must  forever 
live.  How  infinitely  happy  must  they  be  who 
have  never  been  guilty  of  actual,  open  crime 
against  the  laws.  And  yet,  what  man  is  he 
that  sinneth  not  ?" 

I  suggested  to  him  that  perhaps  it  might  be 
of  service  to  him  to  converse  with  the  chaplain, 
who  was  a  very  kind  and  good  man. 

"  Oh,  no !"  he  answered.  "  The  heart  know- 
eth  its  own  bitterness,  and  I  know  all  he  would 
say  to  me.  Yet,  doctor,  if  I  might  venture  to 
make  a  request,  which  of  course  I  have  no 
right  to  make,  and  your  kindness  in  this  place 
can  scarcely  sanction,  it  would  be  that  I  might 
have  a  little  more  solitude  while  I  am  sick. 
You  smile  as  if  you  suspected  some  sinister 
designs.  I  assure  you  I  have  none.  I  only 
wish  to  have  more  opportunity  of  communing 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


with  my  own  heart,  than  I  can  have,  surround- 
ed by  so  much  misery  that  I  can  do  nothing  to 
alleviate,  and  which  seems  to  remind  me  so 
strongly  and  so  constantly  of  what  I  am." 

The  room  now  occupied  as  the  hospital  is 
the  chapel,  a  room  capable  of  seating  about  fif- 
teen hundred  pwsons.  The  seats  have  all  been 
removed,  and  the  whole  area,  below  and  above, 
is  occupied  by  beds.  I  have  had  Morley  re- 
moved to  the  extreme  end  of  the  south  gallery, 
and  a  sort  of  small  room  made  by  surrounding 
his  bed  with  blanket  curtains.  One  of  the 
small  windows,  closely  barred,  lets  in  the  light 
over  his  head,  and  altogether  it  looks  quite 
comfortable  and  cheerful.  Morley  is  very 
thankful,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  I 
stepped  within  the  curtain  after  lie  was  re- 
moved. 

"  God  bless  you  for  this,  doctor  !"  said  he. 
"  I  did  not  expect  it.  Your  kindness  makes 
me  feel  that  all  is  not  dark." 

"  Try, '  said  I,  "  to  open  your  own  heart  to  a 
little  light.  You  may  yet  be  far  happier  than 
you  now  think." 

"  You  do  not  know  all,  my  dear  sir,"  he  re- 
plied. "  If  a  man's  guilt,  and  the  consequent 
disgrace  and  misery,  extended  no  farther  than 
himself,  he  might  harden  his  heart,  or  bury  his 
sorrow  out  of  sight.  But  it  is  not  so.  And 
mine  has  fallen  like  a  mildew  on  one  heart  that 
was  too  pure  and  good  for  me,  and  I  fear  it 
broke.  I  do  not  feel  so  much  for  myself  as  for 
that  one  effect  of  my  crime,  and  sometimes  I 
think  I  shall  go  mad.  I  have  such  an  agony 
here,  in  my  forehead,  and  I  want  so  to  shrink 
down  into  some  dark  comer,  and  yield  myself 
up  to  madness  or  gibbering  idiocy.  If  I  only 
knew  that  she  were  afive,  and  had. forgotten 
me  and  my  crime,  that  my  curse  had  passed 
by  her — but  it  cannot  be,  for  she  loved  me  to 
the  last.  Doctor,  I  have  had  a  letter  from  her 
Aere— since  I  have  been  in  prison,  a  convicted 
felon.  I  have  preserved  it,  and  I  have  it  now ; 
and  all  the  vigilance  of  our  argus-eyed  keepers 
has  not.  detected  it  through  two  long  years.  It 
told  me  she  still  loved  me ;  and  it  is  a  canker 
eating  into  my  heart,  for  I  never  read  it  but  to 
feel  how  unworthy  I  am  of  tliat  love." 

This  conversation  has  opened  my  eyes  to  a 
new  feature  in  the  character  of  my  patient 
But  there  is  something — much  still  behind.  It 
is  no  love,  nor  care  for  woman's  love,  that  has 
made  the  burden  of  this  man's  sorrow.  I  shall 
seize  upon  the  first  opportunity  to  learn  more. 
The  fact  of  his  having  received  a  letter  since 


he  was  imprisoned,  and  preser\'ing  it  till  tiiis 
time,  shows  how  vain  in  many  respects  are  all 
attempts  to  prohibit  intercourse  between  men 
who  work  together.  Indeed,  all  the  convicts 
seem  to  be  perfectly  familiar  with  the  news 
of  the  world  without. 

I  tried  to  show  Morley  that  the  consequences 
of  his  crime,  whatever  that  might  be,  were  not 
to  be  alleviated  by  vain  regret,  and  that  in  no 
case  could  there  be  cause  for  such  unmitigated 
remorse.  But  he  has  so  long  accustomed  him- 
self to  viewing  it  in  his  own  way,  that  his 
strong  mind  has  given  a  deeper  hue  to  his  guilt 
than  even  the  strongest  moral  code  confers. 
He  will  not  allow  that  repentance  should  make 
the  mind  more  quiet,  viewing,  as  he  does,  the 
consequences  as  reaching  to,  and  involving  the 
happiness  of  others.  "  Nothing,"  he  says, 
"  can  ever  restore  to  them  what  my  crime  has 
taken  from  them."  Such  feelings  of  remorse 
as  these  must  originate  in  a  benevolent  mind. 

Tuesday  morning. — Still  improving,  but  an 
incident  has  occurred  this  morning  which  must 
exert  a  powerful  influence  upon  him.  We  do 
meet,  now  and  then,  with  strange  coincidences, 
as  they  are  called. 

I  had  scarcely  entered  the  hospital  this  morn- 
ing before  I  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  my 

young  friend,  tlie  Rev.  Mr.  E .     Being  in 

the  neighborhood,  with  a  fearlessness  perfectly 
characteristic  of  his  noble  mind,  he  had  come 
in  to  see  me  and  my  patients.  Of  course  I 
was  glad  to  see  him,  and  after  the  first  few 
words  of  kindly  greeting  and  mutual  inquiry, 
I  took  him  with  me  in  the  morning  round  of 
the  hospital.  He  had  many  questions  to  ask 
as  we  stood  by  the  bedside  of  the  various  pa- 
tients, and  with  his  natural  kindness  and  be- 
nevolence, he  would  often  address  a  few  words 
of  hope  or  comfort  to  the  sufferers.  I  left  him 
thus  occupied  while  I  visited  Morley.  I  had 
hardly  finished  my  inquiries  to  him,  and  con- 
gratulated him  on  his  improvement,  before  the 

curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and  E entered. 

The  scene  that  ensued  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
describe.     I  left  them  a  few  moments  together, 

when  E again  joined  me.     His  face  was 

expressive  of  the  most  profound  grief,  and  his 
eyes  showed  that  he  had  been  weeping. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  he.  "  I  knew  he 
was  here,  and  had  intended  to  inquire  all  about 
him  ;  but  meeting  him  so  suddenly,  and  under 
such  circumstances,  quite  unmanned  me." 

"  I  saw  at  once,"  I  said,  "  that  you  knew 
him." 


10 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


"  Knew  him !  We  were  the  nearest  of 
friends  from  our  boyhood.  We  grew  up  to 
manhood  together ;  we  studied  together — ^I  had 
almost  said,  out  of  the  same  books — the  same 
through  college.  We  were  examined  together 
and  licensed  at  the  same  time,  as  ministers  of 
the  Gospel  of  Jestis  Christ.  Should  I  not  know 
him  ?     And  he  here !"  he  groaned  aloud. 

I  did  not  interfere  for  a  moment  with  this 
burst  of  feeling,  but  when  he  became  more 
calm  I  told  him  of  my  interest  in  the  man  from 
the  first,  and  of  my  conviction  that  he  was  no 
common  person,  though  I  knew  nothing  of  his 
history. 

"  You  must  know  it,"  he  replied ;  "  and  if 
you  say  so,  I  will  spend  this  evening  with  you, 
and  we  will  talk  about  him.  You  may  rest 
assured  he  is  not  a  depraved  man,  and  I  never 
loved  him  as  I  do  now,  and  I  am  certain  he  was 
never  more  worthy  of  it." 

It  is  arranged  that  he  should  pass  the  even- 
ing in  my  little  office  adjoining  the  hospital ; 
I  shall  then  know  something  of  the  history  of 
this  singular  man. 

6  o'clock. — Morley  has  spent  a  restless  day, 
and  I  have  been  fearful  of  a  relapse.  His  in- 
terview of  this  morning  agitated  him  greatly. 
This  evening,  however,  he  is  more  quiet  and 
comfortable.  If  he  pass  a  quiet  night,  I  shall 
feel  relieved  of  great  anxiety. 

10  o^dock. — N.  B.  I  here  enter  as  part  of  my 
journal,  and  as  necessary  to  fill  out  the  narra- 
tive I  may  one  day  write  of  this  interesting  in- 
dividual, the  history  I  have  just  listened  to  from 
the  mouth  of  my  friend  E . 

"  I  told  you  this  morning,"  he  began,  "  that 
we  grew  up  together  from  childhood.  I  knew 
every  thought  of  his  heart,  as  he  did  of  mine. 
I  told  you  we  studied  together.  It  v/as  only 
our  lessons,  however,  that  we  thus  studied. 
His  other  studies  he  pursued  alone,  not  because 
he  did  not  choose  to  have  me  with  him,  but  be- 
cause he  was  immeasurably  beyond  me  in  the 
faculty  or  power  of  acquiring  knowledge.  He 
commenced  in  his  mere  boyhood  with  old 
scholars  and  writers  of  former  times.  He 
drank  in  knowledge  as  the  earth  drinks  in  the 
dews  of  heaven.  It  seemed  the  aliment  of  his 
Boul ;  and,  day  and  night,  he  read,  and  wrote, 
and  thought,  and  listened  to  the  lectures  of 
learned  men,  and  went  away  and  pondered  on 
them,  till  he  had  made  their  thoughts  his  own. 
Ho  would  thus  have  grown  infinitely  beyond 
ray  reach,  had  it  not  been  that  in  the  routine 
of  recitations  and  the  duties  of  the  classes  in 


school  and  college,  we  were  obliged  to  be  to- 
gether. But  as  it  was,  I  early  began  to  look 
up  to  him,  and  wonder  at  the  difference  there 
can  be  between  two  men. 

"  It  was  only  in  the  pursuits  of  learning  that 
he  went  beyond  me.  Our  affection  for  each 
other  remained  the  same,  unchanged  and  un- 
changing through  all  the  intercourse  of  years. 
It  may  be  that  we  loved  each  other,  as  the 
strong  and  the  weak  mutually  cling  together, 
from  innate  conviction  of  dependence  and  sup- 
port. We  read  together  the  poets  of  our  own 
language,  and  from  them  we  went  to  those  of 
others,  and  he  led  me  like  a  child,  encouraging 
me  when  I  faltered,  putting  words  into  my 
mouth  when  we  talked  of  what  we  had  read, 
filling  my  mind  with  great  and  stupendous 
imETginings,  and  thus  moulding  me  more  and 
more  after  himself. 

"  Such  was  our  life  at  school  and  college. 
He  mingled  little  with  the  sports  of  others,  yet 
so  much  as  never  to  be  thought  austere  or 
cynical.  He  was  esteemed  by  all,  and  no  one 
felt  aggrieved  when  he  bore  off  the  highest 
honors  of  his  class.  They  belonged  to  him. 
He  then  commenced  his  studies  preparatory  to 
becoming  a  minister  of  Christ.  Here,  as  a 
student,  he  relaxed  not  a  particle  of  his  ardor, 
while,  through  all  his  course,  none  was  more 
exemplary  as  a  Christian,  none,  I  believe,  more 
in  heart  one.  It  is  this,  I  find  from  his  conver- 
sation this  morning,  that  gives  the  darkest  hue 
to  his  crime,  dark  enough  of  itself — it  is  this 
that  makes  his  remorse  more  keen. 

"  He  became  a  preacher,  and  in  the  whole 
list  of  clergymen  in  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
with  which  he  was  connected,  I  know  of  none 
who  gave  more  promise  of  great  usefulness 
and  popularity  than  Henry  Morley.  It  is  past. 
Henceforth  he  must  be  dead  to  the  Church — to 
the  world. 

'•  From  this  time  I  saw  little  of  him,  but  we 
kept  up  a  constant  intercourse  by  letters,  and 
in  them  he  was  always  the  same  as  when  we 
had  been  together.  They  were  filled  with  the 
deep  poetry  of  his  imaginative  soul,  mingled 
with  a  stem  devotion  to  the  sacred  office  he 
had  taken  upon  himself.  The  faith  and  hope 
of  the  Gospel  shone  resplendent  in  all  he 
wrote,  and  I  owe  to  him,  more  than  to  any 
other  man,  the  clearness  of  my  own  views  of 

Eternal  Truth.    I  tell  you,  Dr.  L ,  there  is 

no  hypocrisy  in  him.  He  is  now  as  sincere  a 
Christian,  I  believe,  as  lives  upon  earth.  It 
was  wonderful  how  he  fell. 


HENRY  MORLEY. 


11 


"  I  must  here  recur  to  an  early  period  of  his 
life.  While  in  college,  in  pursuance  of  his  love 
of  nature,  he  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  vaca- 
tions in  travelling  on  foot  through  various  parts 
of  the  country.  In  one  of  his  excursions  he 
had  wandered  into  a  neighboring  State,  and  on 
Saturday  evening  stopped  at  the  house  of  a 
clergyman,  who  had  been  an  old  friend  of 
his  father's,  and  passed  a  week  with  him.  Here 
commenced  an  acquaintance  with  the  minister's 

daughter,  Ellen  B ,  that  ripened  into  the 

warmest  and  most  sincere  love.  That  love,  all 
the  sin  and  trials  that  have  followed  have  not 
been  able  to  efface,  and  I  know  that  at  this  mo- 
ment, were  he  free,  Ellen  though  aware  of  his 
guilt  is  ready  to  become  his  wife.  I  saw  her 
not  many  days  ago,  and,  hearing  I  was  to  be 
in  this  neighborhood,  she  besought  me  to  come 
and  learn  something  of  Henry.  She  would 
have  written  to  him,  but  I  knew  it  would  not 
be  allowed  to  reach  him,  and  advised  her  not  to 
do  it.  She  did  not  sink  and  fade  under  the  dis- 
grace of  being  the  betrothed  bride  of  a  convict, 
but  has  maintained  a  calm  determination  to 
await  his  release  and  then  become  his  forever. 
But  I  mucl  return  to  his  history.      • 

"  As  Foon  as  he  was  licensed  to  preach,  he  re- 
C(!ived  numerous  calls  to  become  the  pastor  of 
churches,  and  he  fixed  upon  one  in  a  beautiful 
village  in  the  interior,  whither  he  immediately 
repaired,  and  entered  upon  his  duties,  expecting 
soon  to  be  married  and  take  his  wife  to  his 
pleasant  new  home.  He  had  not  been  there 
however  many  weeks  before,  in  an  hour  of  sud- 
den temptation,  he  committed  the  crime  that 
brought  him  here.  I  cannot  understand  it, 
sir ;  he  attempts  to  give  no  explanation  of  it. 
He  had  never  seen  the  moment  before  when  he 
would  not  have  trampled  on  temptation,  and  es- 
pecially to  such  a  crime,  which  could  not  for 
one  moment  escape  detection  and  disgrace  ;  as 
easily  as  he  could  have  crushed  a  worm.  But 
to  him  it  was  the  "  hour  and  the  power  of  dark- 
ness." He  fell  like  a  star  frogi  heaven.  An 
hour  had  not  passed  before  he  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  officers  of  the  law.  He  did  not  resist — 
he  did  not  deny  the  charge.  He  admitted  it  in 
all  its  aggravation,  and  from  that  moment  his 
noble  heart  was  bowed  down  in  agony  and  re- 
morse. 

"  Doctor,  is  it  not  true,  that  there  are  moments 
— perhaps  mere  instants — in  the  life  of  every 
man,  when,  if  the  tempter  throws  crime  in  his 
way,  he  cannot  resist,  but  yields  as  if  to  the 
voice  of  doom  ?    Is  he  deranged — crazy — luna- 


tic ?    How  fearfnl  to  be  thus  even  for  a  single 
instant  deserted  of  God. 

"  He  sent  for  me.  I  found  him  in  prison, 
waiting  the  form  of  trial,  for  he  would  not,  and 
did  not  deny  his  crime.  He  wept  like  a  child. 
He  did  not  rave.  There  was  no  wildness,  but 
a  deep  self-loathing — an  overwhelming  convic- 
tion of  the  disgrace  he  had  brought  upon  his 
friends,  upon  Ellen,  but  oh  !  vastly  more  upon 
his  Saviour,  and  the  religion  of  which  he  was 
the  minister.  I  spent  the  whole  time  with  him 
till  the  trial.  He  was  urged  to  plead  for  his 
acquittal.  His  friends — and  he  had  not  a  few  in 
that  dark  hour — wished  to  plead  sudden  de- 
rangement. He  refused.  He  would  not  shrink 
from  the  punishment  due  to  his  crime  as  much 
as  to  any  others,  though  he  could  not  compre- 
hend how  he  had  been  led,  to  do  it.  He  offer- 
ed no  extenuation  and  was  sentenced. 

"  He  was  then  more  calm.  He  had  entered 
upon  the  expiation  of  his  guilt,  as  far  as  men 
were  concerned.  He  now  wished  me  to  go  and 
see  Ellen  and  offer  her  what  consolation  I  could, 
and  gave  me  a  letter  to  her,  in  which  he  con- 
fessed all  his  guilt — related  minutely  every  cir- 
cumstance of  it,  but  did  not  palliate  it  in  the 
least.  He  knew  that  he  had  now  become  se- 
parated at  an  immeasurable  distance  from  her 
innocent  love,  and  yet  all  this  did  not  give  him 
the  agony  that  he  felt  when  he  reflected  on  the 
disgrace  he  had  entailed  on  her.  The  rest  of 
the  letter  was  filled  with  the  deepest  self-loath- 
ing and  remorse. 

"  I  came  with  him  to  this  place,  and  saw  him 
within  the  doors,  and  then  went  on  the  sad  er- 
rand with  which  he  had  entrusted  me.  Ellen 
had  heard  all  before — but  with  uttter  incredu- 
lity ;  and  now,  when  she  read  the  confession 
from  his  own  hand,  she  did  not  blush  at  his 
memory,  but  said  tome,  as  she  looked  up  through 
her  tears  :  'He  is  not  guilty  to  this  heart,  sir. 
He  does  not  know  me,  if  he  thinks  I  can  be 
thus  estranged.' 

"  She  was  as  noble  in  soul  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful. She  was  in  need  of  no  consolation  from 
me.  That  letter,  sir,  I  believe  she  answered. 
She  heard  of  a  criminal  being  sentenced  to  this 
prison  soon  after,  and  went  to  him  and  told  her 
tale  in  such  a  way  as  melted  the  man's  heart. 
Whether  he  ever  delivered  it  I  do  not  know. 
I  presume  not. 

"  You  have  now  the  history  of  the  man — my 
friend — my  more  than  friend — my  brother. 
You  can  little  conceive  my  joy  this  morning 
when  the  first  shock  of  meeting  him  had  passed 


12 


CH  HENRY  MORLEY.  lA. 


at  being  able  to  converse  with  him.  I  told  him 
in  few  words  of  Ellen's  faithfulness,  and  where 
she  was  living,  not  many  miles  from  this  place, 
and  that  strong  efforts  were  being  made  to  pro- 
cure his  release.  I  know  not  whether  his  were 
tears  of  joy  or  sorrow.  I  think,  however,  they 
will  produce  a  change  in  his  thoughts,  and  per- 
haps for  the  better.  They  may  open  his  heart 
to  more  of  hope." 

I  have  abridged,  considerably,  the  account 
given  by  my  friend  E ;  but  it  is  substan- 
tially his,  and  has  of  course  not  diminished  my 
interest  in  Morley.  I  may  be  able  to  render 
him  some  aid  in  the  efforts  his  friends  are  now 
making  in  his  behalf. 

Wednesday  morning. — ^I  waited  for  E 

this  morning  before  going  my  rounds,  as  I 
wished  to  give  him  another  opportunity  of  see- 
ing Morley.  We  found  him  much  better — quite 
cheerful,  and  a  good  deal  more  resigned  to  life, 
though  he  does  not  say  so  very  vehemently. 

From  this  time  I  find  little  worth  noticing, 
in  my  journal,  of  this  individual,  as  new  cases 
of  great  violence  of  attack  rapidly  increased, 
and  he  was  gradually  convalescing.  On  the 
morning  succeeding  the  night  of  the  terrific 
thunder-storm  which  I  have  before  mentioned, 
however,  I  find  the  following  entry  : 

"  Morley  is  gone.  Last  night,  in  the  midst  of 
a  most  terrific  thunder-storm  he  made  his  escape, 
from  the  hospital,  through  a  window  where  the 
bars  had  been  a  little  bent,  by  letting  himself 
down  by  his  bedclothes.  The  whole  country 
has  been  scoured  since  an  early  hour,  but  no- 
thing can  be  heard  or  seen  of  him.  In  such  a 
night  and  in  so  feeble  a  state  he  must  have  per- 
ished. So  ends  the  history  of  this  singular 
man.  His  escape  is  the  more  unfortunate,  in- 
asmuch as  his  pardon  arrived  this  morning." 

I  immediately  communicated  these  facts  to 

E ,  whose  distress  was  intense.     But  as 

he  was  on  the  eve  of  departing  for  New  York, 
where  the  cholera  had  ceased,  I  saw  no  more 
of  him  for  years.  In  a  few  days,  the  hospital, 
was  clear,  and  not  being  any  longer  needed  I 
took  my  leave,  and  thus  closed  my  acquaintance 
with  prisons  and  Cholera  Asphyxia. 


Aflcr  spending  about  three  years  in  the  prac- 
tice of  my  profession  in  one  of  the  pleasantest 
villages  in  the  interior  of  Connecticut,  the  ma- 
nia, so  prevalent  about  that  period,  for  speculat- 
ing in  wild  lands,  seized  me  also,  and  resign- 
ing my  business,  I  migrated  to  one  of  the 


western  States.  But  soon  becoming  disgusted 
with  the  gambling  operations  of  speculators, 
and  being  yet  a  single  man  and  not  tied  down 
with  a  family,  I  went  farther  south.  There  I 
fixed  upon  a  residence,  where  I  afterwards 
spent  many  happy  years.  It  was  soon  known 
that  I  was  a  physician,  and  although  I  had  not 
intended  to  follow  my  profession,  I  received 
occasionally  a  call  to  see  some  one  who  was 
sick. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  after  my  settlement 
there,  when  a  messenger  came  for  me  to  go  a 
few  miles  into  the  country,  to  see  a  child  of 

the  Rev.  Mr.  A r,  who  had  been  severely 

injured  by  a  fall.  More  for  the  sake  of  making 
what  might  be  a  valuable  acquaintance,  than 
for  any  other  reason,  I  immediately  set  out. 

The  roads  in  that  region  are  always  bad, 
and  at  that  season  of  the  year  worse  than  at 
any  other  time,  so  that  my  progress  was  slow 
and  toilsome.  I  at  length  reached  the  place, 
though  it  was  considerably  after  dark.  Giving 
my  horse  to  the  servant,  I  approached  the 
house,  whence  I  distinctly  heard  the  moans  of 
the  little  sufferer.  I  paused  a  moment  before 
an  open  window,  to  observe  the  group  within 
The  beautiful  mother  held  in  her  lap  a  child, 
as  beautiful  as  herself,  apparently  about  two 
years  old,  and  evidently  in  great  pain.  A  man, 
who  seemed  the  lather,  stood  with  his  back  to- 
wards me,  and  looking  with  earnestness  on  the 
sick  child.  Suddenly  he  turned.  Could  it  be 
possible  ?  Henry  Morley  stood  before  me  ! 
I  could  not  be  mistaken.  I  hastily  entered  the 
room,  and  in  a  moment  our  hands  were  locked 
in  warm  recognition.  The  child  was  soon  re- 
lieved, and  then  I  ventured  to  make  my  inqui- 
ries.    They  were  soon  answered. 

The  night  of  his  escape,  he  had  found  his 
way  through  the   storm  to  the  place  where 

E had  told  him  Ellen  was  to  be  found. 

There,  it  need  not  be  told,  he  found  a  heart 
ready  to  receive  him.  Under  the  ministering 
care  of  his  happy  Ellen  he  soon  recovered. 
They  heard  the  report  of  his  escape  and  proba- 
ble death,  and  did  not  contradict  it.  On  his 
perfect  recovery  they  were  married,  and  imme- 
diately came  to  this  retired  place,  where  I  was 
the  first  of  their  old  acquaintances  who  had 

found  them,  except  their  devoted  friend  E , 

to  whom  they  communicated  all  their  move- 
ments, and  who  had  once  visited  them. 

Under  the  name  of  A r,  he  had  resumed 

his  clerical  odico,  and  devoted  himself  warmly 
to  the  good  of  the  people. 


RAMBLES    ABOUT    LONDON. 


13 


BY    J.     T.     HEADLEY. 
THE    TOWER    OF    LONDON. 


It  is  said  that  Webster  had  scarcely  arrived 
in  London,  before  he  ordered  a  carriage  and 
drove  to  the  Tower.  There  is  probably  no 
building  in  the  world  so  fraught  with  history, 
and  around  which  cluster  so  many  and  varied 
associations  as  this.  Kings  have  held  their 
courts  there,  and  there,  too,  lain  in  chains. 
Queens,  princes,  nobles,  and  menials,  have  by 
turns  occupied  its  gloomy  dungeons.  The 
shout  of  revelry,  triumphant  strains  of  music, 
and  groans  of  the  dying,  and  shrieks  of  mur-  i 
dered  victims,  have  successively  and  together 
made  its  massive  walls  ring.  Every  stone  in 
that  gray  old  structure  has  a  history  to  tell — 
it  stands  the  grand  and  gloomy  treasure-house 
of  England's  feudal  and  military  glory.  Cen- 
turies have  come  and  gone,  whole  dynasties 
disappeared,  and  yet  that  old  tower  still  rises 
in  its  strength.  It  has  seen  old  monarchies 
crumble  to  pieces  and  new  ones  rise — the  fee- 
ble town  become  the  gorgeous  and  far  extend- 
ing city — the  Roman  galley  give  place  to  the 
fleets  of  commerce — the  heavy-armed  knight, 
with  his  hauberk  and  helmet  and  shield,  dis- 
appear before  the  cabman  and  omnibus  driver 
of  London.  The  pomp  and  glory  of  knightly 
days  have  vanished  before  the  spirit  of  trade 
and  the  thirst  for  gain.  The  living  tide  rolls 
like  the  sea  around  it ;  yet  there  it  stands,  si- 
lent yet  eloquent — unwasted  by  time,  unchanged 
by  the  changes  that  destroy  or  modify  all  things 
human.  It  has  a  double  effect,  standing  as  it 
does  amid  modern  improvements. 

The  moment  one  crosses  the  ditch  and 
passes  under  the  gloomy  arch,  he  seems  in  an- 
other world — breathing  a  different  atmosphere, 
surrounded  by  new  associations,  and  hurried 
back,  as  by  the  spell  of  an  enchanter,  to  re- 
mote antiquity.  We  seem  to  be  convers- 
ing with  a  new  race,  hving  in  another  world,   ] 


and  watching  the  progress  of  a  different  life. 
All  the  armor  ever  v/orn  in  ancient  days — every 
instrument  of  torture  or  of  death,  used  in  the 
dark  ages — crowns  and  sceptres  and  jewels 
are  gathered  here  with  a  prodigality  that  as- 
tonishes the  beholder. 

We  enter  by  the  "  Lyons'  Gate,"  and  cross- 
ing what  was  once  occupied  as  the  royal  me- 
nagerie, pass  to  the  Middle  Tov/er,  near  which 
is  the  Bell  Tower,  where  hangs  the  alarm-bell, 
whose  toll  is  seiaom  heard. 

Here  John  Fisher,  Bishop  of  Rochester,  was 
imprisoned  for  refusing  to  acknowledge  the 
supremacy  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  afterwards  ex- 
ecuted. A  little  farther  on  is  the  "  Traitor's 
Gate,"  and  near  by,  the  Bloody  Tower,  where 
it  is  said  the  two  princes — nephews  of  Richard 
III. — were  suffocated  by  their  uncle.  The 
armory  is  mostly  gone,  having  been  destroyed 
in  the  conflagration  which  took  place  a  few 
years  ago.  But  here  is  the  Horse  Armory,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  and  thirty-three 
wide,  with  a  line  of  equestrian  figures,  as  if  ia 
battle  array,  stretching  through  the  centre.  A 
banner  is  over  the  head  of  each — the  ceiling  is 
covered  with  arms  and  accoutrements — the- 
walls  with  armor  and  figures  of  ancient  war- 
riors ;  and  over  all  rest  the  dust  and  rust  of 
time.  That  row  of  twenty-two  horsemen,  large 
as  life,  armed  to  the  teeth,  with  helmet  and 
cuirass  and  breastplate  and  coats  of  mail,  and' 
lances  and  swords  and  battle-axes  and  shields, 
sitting  grim  and  silent  there,  is  a  sight  one 
will  not  easily  forget.  They  seem  ready  to 
charge  on  the  foe,  and  their  attitude  and  aspect 
are  so  fierce,  that  one  almost  trembles  to  walk 
in  front  of  the  steeds. 

But  pass  along  these  dusty  kings  and 
knights  of  old.  Here  sits  Edward  I.,  of  1272,. 
clad  in  mail  worn,  in  the  time  of  the  cm- 


14 


RAMBLES    ABOUT     LONDON. 


Slides,  and  bearing  a  shield  in  his  left  hand. 
So,  haughty  king,  thou  didst  look  when  the 
brave  and  gallant  Wallace  lay  a  prisoner  in 
lliose  dungeons,  from  whence  he  was  dragged 
by  thy  order,  tied  to  the  tails  of  horses,  and 
quartered  and  torn  asunder  with  fiendish  cru- 
elty. 

Next  to  the  tyrant  and  brute  sits  Henry  VI., 
who,  too  feeble  to  rule  the  turbulent  times, 
became  the  inmate  of  a  dungeon  here,  and  was 
one  night  darkly  murdered  in  his  cell.  Gay 
Edward  IV.,  in  his  dashing  armor  we  pass  by, 
for  here  sits  an  ancient  knight  in  a  suit  of 
ribbed  mail,  with  ear-guards  to  his  helmet  and 
rondelles  for  the  arm-pits,  and  altogether  one 
of  the  finest  suits  of  armor  in  the  world.  Be- 
side him  is  another  knight,  his  horse  clad  in 
complete  armcJr,  and  a  battle-axe  hanging  at 
the  saddle-bow.  Beware,  you  are  crowding 
against  the  horse  of  old  Henry  VIII.  That 
is  the  very  armor  the  bloody  monarch  wore. 
His  relentless  hand  has  grasped  that  short 
sword,  and  around  his  brutal  form  that  very 
belt  once  passed,  and  beneath  that  solid  breast- 
plate his  wild  and  ferocious  heart  did  beat. 
Horse  and  horseman  are  clad  in  steel  from  head 
to  heel ;  and  as  I  gazed  on  him  there,  I  wanted 
to  whisper  in  his  ears  the  names  of  his  mur- 
dered wives.  Here  all  the  pomp  of  royal  mag- 
nificence honored  the  nuptials  of  Anne  Boleyn, 
and  here,  three  years  after,  she  lay  a  prisoner — 
the  beautiful,  the  honored  and  rejected — and 
wrote  from  her  dungeon  to  her  relentless  lord, 
saying : 

"Let  not  your  Grace  ever  imagine  that  your  poor 
wife  will  ever  be  brought  to  acknowledge  a  fault, 
when  not  so  much  as  a  thought  thereof,  ever  pro- 
ceeded ♦  ♦  •  Try  me,  good  king,  but  let  me  have 
a  lawfull  tryall;  and  let  not  my  sworn  enemies  sit 
as  my  accusers  and  judges,  yea,  let  me  receive  an 
open  tryall,  for  my  truth  shall  fear  no  open  shames 
•  ♦  *  But  if  you  have  already  determined  of  me, 
and  that  not  only  my  death,  but  an  infamous  slan- 
der must  bring  you  the  enjoying  of  your  desired 
happiness,  then  I  desire  of  God  that  he  will  pardon 
your  great  sin  therein,  and  likewise  mine  enemies, 
the  inslrumenis  thereof,  and  that  he  will  not  call 
you  to  a  strict  account  for  your  unprincely  and 
cruel  usage  of  me  at  his  general  judgment-seat, 
where  both  you  and  me  myself,  must  shortly  appear, 
and  in  whose  judgment,  I  doubt  not,  (whatsoever 
the  world  may  think  of  me,)  mine  innocence  shall 
be  openly  recorded  and  sufiiciently  cleared. 

From  my  doleful!  prisoD  ia  the  Tower,  this  6ih 
of  May. 

Your  most  loyall  and  ever  faithful  wife, 
ANNE  BOLEYN. 

It  availed  not  proud,  king,  and  that  beautiful 


neck  was  severed  at  thy  command  ;  but  at  that 
dread  judgment  to  which  she  summons  thee,  her 
tremulous  voice— lost  here  on  earth  in  the  whirl- 
wind of  passion — shall  be  to  thy  ear  louder  than 
a  peal  of  thunder.  Katharine  Howard  is  another 
swift  witness ;  last,  though  not  least,  the  Count- 
ess of  Salisbury.  This  high-spirited  woman, 
though  seventy  j'ears  of  age,  was  condemned  to 
death  for  treason.  When  brought  out. for  execu- 
tion, she  refused  to  place  her  head  on  the  block, 
declaring  she  was  no  traitress,  and  the  execu- 
tioner followed  her  around  on  the  scaffold, 
striking  at  her  hoary  head  with  his  axe  until 
she  fell.  But  I  will  not  dwell  on  these  sepa- 
rate figures.  As  I  looked  on  this  long  line  of 
kings  sitting  motionless  on  their  motionless 
steeds,  the  sinewy  hand  strained  over  the  battle- 
axe,  the  identical  sword  they  wielded  centuries 
ago  flashing  on  my  sight,  and  the  very  spurs  on 
their  heels  that  were  once  driven  into  their  war 
steeds  as  they  thundered  over  the  battle  plain, 
the  plumes  seemed  to  wave  before  my  eyes, and 
the  shout  of  kings  to  roll  through  the  arches. 
The  hand  grasping  the  reins  on  the  horses'necks 
seemed  a  live  hand,  and  the  clash  of  the  sword, 
the  shield,  and  the  battle-axe,  and  the  mailed 
armor,  rung  in  my  ear.  I  looked  again,  and 
the  dream  was  dispelled.  Motionless  as  the 
walls  around  them  they  sat,  mere  effigies  of 
the  past.  Yet  how  significant !  Each  figure 
there  was  a  history,  and  all  monuments  of  Eng- 
land's glory  as  she  was.  At  the  farther  end  of 
the  adjoining  room  sat  a  solitary  "  crusader  on 
his  barbed  horse,  said  to  be  700  years  old." 
Stern  old  grim  figure !  on  the  very  trappings 
of  thy  steed,  and  on  that  thick  plaited  mail,  has 
flashed  the  sun  of  Palestine.  Thou  didst  stand 
perchance  with  that  gallant  host  led  on  by  the 
wondrous  hermit,  on  the  last  hill  that  over- 
looked Jerusalem,  and  when  the  Holy  City  was 
seen  lying  like  a  beautiful  vision  below,  glittering 
in  the  soft  light  of  an  eastern  sunset,  that  flooded 
Mount  Moriah,  Mount  Zion,  and  Mount  Olivet, 
with  its  garden  of  suffering,  and  more  than  all, 
Mount  Calvary,  the  voice  from  out  that  visor 
did  go  up  with  the  mighty  murmur  of  the  ban- 
nered host,  "  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem  .'  On  that 
very  helmet  perchance  has  the  scimctar  broke, 
and  from  that  mailed  breast  the  spear  of  the  In- 
fidel rebounded.  Methinks  I  hear  thy  battle 
shout,  "  To  the  rescue  !"  as  thy  gallant  steed  is 
borne  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  where  thy 
brave  bretliren  are  struggling  for  the  Cross  and 
the  Sepulchre. 
But  crusades  and  crusaders  are  well  nigh 


THE     OLD    BRICK-CHURCH-YARD. 


15 


forgotten.  For  centuries  the  dust  of  the  desert 
has  drifted  over  the  bones  of  the  chivalry  of 
Europe.  The  Arab  still  spurs  his  steed 
through  the  forsaken  streets  of  ancient  Jerusa- 
lem, and  the  Muezzin's  voice  rings  over  the 
sepulchre  of  the  Saviour.* 

But  let  these  grim  figures  pass.  Here  is  the 
room  in  which  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  lay  a  pris- 
oner. By  his  gross  flatteries  he  had  won  the 
favor  of  Elizabeth,  who  lavished  honors  upon 
hira  until  she  at  length  discovered  his  amour 
%vith  the  beautiful  EHzabeth  Throckmorton. 
Her  rage  then  knew  no  bounds  and  was  worthy 
of  her  character,  and  she  cast  the  luckless,  ac- 
complished courtier  into  the  Tower.  Up  and 
down  this  very  stone  floor  he  has  paced  day 
after  day,  pondering  on  the  sad  change  that  has 
befallen  him,  and  sighing  heavily  for  the  splen- 
dor and  luxury  he  has  lost.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, despair ;  he  knew  too  well  the  weakness 
of  his  termagant  mistress,  and  so  one  day  as  he 
saw  from  that  window  the  queen's  barge  pass- 
ing by,  he  threw  himself  into  a  paroxysm  of 
passion,  and  in  his  ravings  besought  the  jailer 
to  let  him  go  forth  in  disguise  and  get  but  one 
look  of  his  dear  mistress.  His  request  being  re- 
fused, he  fell  upon  the  keeper,  and  finally  drew 
his  dagger.  Good  care  was  taken  that  this  ex- 
traordinary mad  fit  should  be  reported  to  Eliza- 
beth. Raleigh  followed  up  the  news  with  a 
well-timed  letter,  which  so  won  upon  the  vixen 
that  she  liberated  him.     Said  he,  in  this  rare 

*  I  would  say,  by  way  of  precaution,  that  though 
the  above  two  paragraphs  may  have  been  seen  by 
some  in  a  work  not  written  by  me,  they  are  still 
mine,  and  not  another's. 


epistle  :  "  My  heart  was  never  broken  till  this 
day,  that  I  hear  the  queen  goes  away  so  far  off, 
whom  I  have  followed  so  many  years  with  so 
great  love  and  desire  rn  so  many  journeys,  and 
am  now  left  behind  in  a  dark  prison,  all  alone. 
While  she  was  yet  near  at  hand  that  I  might 
hear  of  her  once  in  two  or  three  days,  my  sor- 
rows were  the  less,  but  even  now  my  heart  is 
cast  into  the  depth  of  misery.  I  that  was 
wont  to  behold  her  riding  like  Alexander,  hunt- 
ing like  Diana,  walking  like  Venus,  the  gentle 
wind  blowing  her  fair  hair  about  her  pure  face 
like  a  nymph — sometimes  sitting  in  the  shade 
like  a  goddes!!,  sometimes  singing  like  an  angel, 
sometimes  playing  like  Orpheus.  Behold  the 
sorrows  of  this  world  once  amiss,  hath  bereaved 
me  of  all,  &c. 

Elizabeth  was  at  this  time  sixty  years  old, 
ugly  as  death's  head,  and  yet  the  foolish  old 
thing  swallowed  it  all.  Her  tiger  heart  re- 
lented and  she  released  her  cunning  lover. 

It  seems  strange  that  a  woman  of  her 
strength  of  intellect  could  have  a  weakness 
so  perfectly  ridiculous  and  childlike.  But  flat- 
tery was  never  too  gross  for  her,  and  Raleigh 
knew  it.  He  had  often  filled  her  royal  ear 
with  such  nonsense  before,  and  seen  her  wrin- 
kled face  relax  into  a  smile  of  tenderness — 
comical  from  its  very  ugliness.  So  goes  the 
world  ;  every  man  has  his  weak  side,  and  the 
strongest  character  is  assailable  in  some  one 
direction.  Pride,  or  vanity,  or  envy,  or  cove- 
tousness,  or  passion,  furnish  an  inlet  to  the 
citadel,  and  it  falls. 

I  may  yet  refer  to  the  Tower  again,  for  its 
walls  are  eloquent  of  the  past. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  REMINISOENOES  OF  A  OOOTTTRr  CONGKEG-ATION." 


My  garret  window  looks  out  upon  the  old 
Brick-Church-yard.  Seven  years  ago,  when 
I  first  climbed  into  this  fifth  story,  an  old  board 
fence  was  around  it,  and  the  gray  stones,  thick- 
set within,  marked  the  crowded  graves  of  the 
fathers  who  built  this  venerable  church,  and 
dedicated  it  to  the  worship  of  God.  Four  or 
five  years  ago,  a  neat  iron  railing  was  set  to 
guard  the  sacred  enclosure;  the  falling  tomb- 


stones were  taken  up  and  laid  in  rows,  flat 
upon  the  ground,  with  their  inscriptions  up- 
ward, telling  that  somewhere  in  those  parts  the 
men  whose  names  they  wear  are  buried. 

This  was  a  decided  impiovement,  and  it  al- 
ters the  face  of  things  materially — so  much 
so  that  a  passer  by  might  stop  and  inquire  if 
this  were  indeed  the  veritable  spot  that  in  early 
years  was  the  up-town  and  almost  out-of-town 


16 


THE    OLD    BRICK-CHURCH-YARD. 


burial-place.  But  there  is  the  old  stone  tablet 
over  the  door,  bearing  the  venerable  record, 

SI  Dtesbnterian   <E!)UccI)> 

ERECTED 

IN   THE   YEAR   OF   OUK   LORD 

1767. 

And  there  stand  the  walls,  time-honored  and 
sacred  :  the  hammer  of  the  Goth  hath  not  yet 
smote  the  sanctuary.  How  soon  it  may  be  the 
prey  of  modem  avarice,  none  may  know. 

Just  now  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  shovel  on 
the  stones,  and  looking  out  of  my  window  I 
saw  a  man  among  the  tombs,  clearing  off  the 
rubbish  that  the  winter  had  gathered  on  the 
prostrate  stones,  and  he  was  now  making  the 
inscriptions  legible  by  a  process  more  summary 
than  Old  Mortality  pursued  when  he  dug  out 
the  letters  with  his  chisel.  It  struck  me  as  a 
very  foolish  work  the  man  was  about,  if  he 
means  to  restore  those  records  so  that  the 
names  will  be  read  and  remembered.  It  is  too 
late  for  those  people.  They  had  their  day  ; 
good  men  and  true  they  were,  and  their  names 
ought  to  be  held  in  lasting  memory ;  they  built 
this  Brick  Church,  and  founded  this  noble  con- 
gregation, that  stands  its  ground  manfully, 
while  one  after  another  of  its  neighbors  is 
travelling  upward — that  is  to  say,  toward  the 
upper  part  of  the  city.  But  the  men  who  slum- 
ber in  the  old  yard  are  forgotten,  or  will  be 
soon,  and  these  stones  that  are  still  fresh  and 
sound  will  crumble,  and  perhaps  the  very 
ground  in  which  the  bones  are  crumbling,  will 
be  desecrated  by  the  march  of  modern  improve- 
ment, and  be  compelled  to  give  up  its  dead 
before  the  trumpet's  call. 

It  has  been  so  with  others  ;  and  it  is  not  a 
little  strange  that  the  old  Brick  stands  yet. 
Mammon  has  his  greedy  eye  on  it,  and  would 
be  glad  to  set  up  an  altar  in  the  midst  of  these 
hallowed  courts.  I  believe  the  god  did  make 
proposals  to  the  Trustees  a  few  years  ago,  and 
holding  out  a  bag  of  dollars,  said,  "  All  these 
will  I  give  you,  if  you  will  fall  down  and  wor- 
ship me ;"  but  the  Board  of  Trust  was  true, 
and  Mammon  went  away,  and  made  a  bargain 
elsewhere. 

But  he  will  come  back  again  and  buy  them 
out — not  now ;  the  present  generation  will  not 
trade  away  the  bones  of  their  fathers,  but  the 
next  will,  and  this  sacred  spot,  right  here  in 
the  heart  of  the  city,  a  silent,  solemn  lesson 
for  men  to  read  and  think  of  as  they  rush  along 
to  or  from  Wall  street,  will  be  covered  with 


stores,  and  nobody  will  dream  that  the  dead  are 
here. 

In  that  comer,  the  nearest  to  Nassau,  is  a 
large  square  stone  that  has  been  a  rostrum 
for  preaching.  A  crazy  carman  was  in  the 
habit  of  holding  forth  daily  to  crowds  in  the 
street,  and  the  police  interfered,  so  that  he 
was  prevented  from  preaching  in  the  streets,  as 
it  was  contrary  to  the  statute.  The  man 
climbed  the  iron  railing,  and  on  the  monument 
in  the  corner,  with  the  neat  rail  in  front  of  him, 
declaimed  to  the  gaping  multitude,  who  heard 
him  with  more  attention  and  in  greater  num- 
bers, now  that  he  had  found  a  holy  spot  to 
stand  on.  There  was  something  rather  start- 
ling in  the  sight  of  a  man  holding  forth  from 
the  top  of  a  grave-stone ;  it  was  literally  a 
voice  from  the  tombs,  and  it  told  somewhat  on 
the  hurrying  multitude ;  there  being  no  law 
against  hearing  in  the  streets,  but  only  against 
preaching,  the  congregation  could  not  be  dis- 
turbed, nor  the  noisy  speaker.  I  used  to  throw 
up  my  window  and  listen  to  the  strong  tones  of 
his  stentorian  voice  rising  above  the  murmur 
of  the  crowd,  and  the  scene  was  at  times  a 
study  for  a  thinking  man.  There  were  the 
dead  in  the  yard,  and  the  living  in  the  street, 
only  a  fence  between  them— only  a  step  between 
them — and  those  outside,  all,  all  would  soon  be 
as  the  others,  and  like  them  forgotten.  The 
carman-exhorter  has  not  been  this  way  lately, 
and  I  do  not  know  what  has  become  of  him. 
Perhaps,  most  likely,  he  has  joined  the  silent 
assembly ! 

But  I  hear  the  shovel  again  on  the  stones. 
The  man  is  hard  at  work,  and  now  a  long  row 
of  stones  are  cleared,  and  they  tell  to  heaven, 
for  they  cannot  be  read  but  by  looking  down, 
tiiat  tliere  were  men  and  women  here  fifty  or 
a  hundred  years  ago,  and  tliat  is  the  deepest 
interest  they  impart  to  the  great  majority  who 
will  ever  cast  an  eye  upon  them.  Yet  it  is  a 
sacred  duty,  and  the  men  are  to  be  honored, 
who  guard  this  spot  with  such  holy  diligence 
and  care.  Keep  off  the  Vandals  cf  modern 
speculation  as  long  as  possible.  If  needs  be, 
tie  up  posterity  to  the  trust,  in  such  legal  per- 
plexities that  they  can  never  safely  alienate 
this  consecrated  ground.  I  love  the  old  word 
for  grave-yard,  "  God's  Acre."  It  speaks  to 
the  soul.  The  dead  are  his.  Blessed  are  they 
who  die  in  him.  Precious  in  the  sight  of  the 
Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints.  Their  dust  is 
precious  in  his  sight.  He  watches  it,  and  will 
call  it  up. 


Si  IP  n^  !!   R^  ©  ,. 


SPRING. 


17 


"When  t'  e  great  Archangel  sha'vcs  the  creation. 
Tears  the  strong  pillars  of  the  vault  of  heaven, 
Breaks  up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes," 

these  stones  will  heave,  and  these  buried  will 
come  fortli.  What  an  uprising  then !  Let 
them  sleep  till  then,  I  pray,  in  His  name,  who 
alone  is  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 

Seeing  this  man  at  work  reminds  me  of  the 
grave-yard  where  my  forefathers  lie.  It  is  on 
a  hill,  in  the  midst  of  a  rural  village,  from  al- 
most any  part  of  which  you  can  see  the  rest- 
ing-place of  those  who  once  walked  the  streets 
and  lived  in  the  houses  that  are  now  tenanted 
by  others.  In  the  time  of  the  Revolutionary 
war,  a  detachment  of  the  British  forces  took 
up  their  quarters  in  this  burial-ground :  they 
tore  up  the  grave-stones  and  used  them  for 
oven-bottoms ;  sweeping  them  out  after  they 
were  heated,  and  then  placing  their  bread  to 
be  baked  on  the  smooth  stones,  and  when  the 


loaves  came  out,  they  bore  the  reversed  inscrip- 
tions of  the  stones,  somewhat  in  this  style, 
YROMEM  EHT  OT  DERCAS,  &c.  The 
colonel  pitched  his  tent  directly  at  the  head  of 
my  grandfather's  grave,  and  gave  as  his  reason 
for  selecting  that  spot,  that  he  wanted  to  tread 
on  the  old  rebel  every  time  he  stepped  out. 
The  old  gentleman  was  an  ardent  patriot,  and 
by  his  voice  and  pen  had  roused  a  spirit  of  stem 
resistance  to  tyranny  in  the  people  among 
whom  he  lived ;  and  hence  the  spite  which  the 
British  officer  cherished,  when  he  found  that 
a  sudden  death  had  placed  the  bones  of  a  brave 
man  within  reach  of  his  insults.  It  is  easy  to 
throw  stones  at  a  dead  lion,  or  even  to  talk 
boldly  when  your  enemy  is  six  feet  under 
ground. 

But  that  man  is  still  at  work  with  his  shovel, 
and  I  will  step  over  while  the  gate  is  open,  and 
scrape  from  those  stones  some  reminiscences 
for  the  Magazine. 


BY    EDWARD    F      OOLERIOK. 


SpRiKa,  bright  Spring  hath  returned  again  ; 

Old  Winter  hath  gone  afar, 
To  his  home  away  in  the  northern  sphere, 

'Neath  the- ray  of  the  polar  star. 


The  balmy  breath  of  the  sunny  South 
Comes  whispering  o'er  the  lea — 

The  birds  are  warbling  their  merry  notes, 
x\way  in  the  greenwood  free. 


Again  she  hath  unsealed  the  foimtain, 
Again  set  the  rivulets  free  ; 

And  gently  they  murmur  o'er  the  earth, 
Sweetly  singing  of  Liberty. 


Once  more  is  the  violet  creeping 

On  the  bank  of  the  silvery  stream, 

Where  the  finny  tribes  are  darting  about, 
As  they  wake  from  their  wintry  dream. 


Her  genial  ray  hath  again  recalled 
Fair  Flora's  beautiful  train. 

To  scent  the  breath  of  the  dewy  mom. 
And  smile  on  the  earth  again. 


The  children  are  sporting  on  the  green, 
The  robin  is  building  her  nest. 

The  butterfly  floats  in  the  sylvan  wild — 
All  nature  is  happy  and  blest. 


Her  bright  smile  hath  again  called  forth 

The  squirrel  and  the  bee. 
From  the  recess  of  their  wintry  homes, 

To  join  in  the  jubilee. 


But  alas !  how  soon  will  Spring  depart, 
With  all  the  joys  she's  given — 

Etemal  Spring  and  endless  joys, 
Are  only  found  in  Heaven. 


18 


NOVEL  WRITERS  ABROAD 


H(D¥Ig3L  WmilflSmS  Aim(DAI2) 


NOVEL    READERS    AT    HOME. 


Among  the  wise  and  the  good,  there  are  now 
two  large  classes,  each  holding  widely  differ- 
ent opinions  respecting  the  novels  which  are 
most  current  at  the  present  day.  One  class 
receive,  without  hesitation,  all  the  issues  of  the 
press,  in  tlie  shape  of  light  literature,  provided 
only  that  they  are  genteel  and  fashionable. 
They  decide  upon  the  merits  of  their  literature, 
very  much  as  they  do  upon  the  fitness  of  an  arti- 
cle of  their  wardrobe.  The  question  with  them 
is  not  whether  this  thing  or  that  thing  is  tasteful, 
becoming,  desirable  in  itself,  but  whether  it  has 
received  the  approbation  of  the  leaders  in  the 
world  of  fashion.  For  such  it  is  sufficient  to 
know  that  a  novel  has  been  published  by  some  re- 
spectable house,  and  that  it  has,  orderly  and  le- 
gitimately, found  its  way  into  good  society. 
The  least  we  can  say  of  such  men  is,  that  they 
have  a  most  defective  and  dangerous  standard 
of  judgment;  and  in  multitudes  of  cases,  prob- 
ably that  is  the  most  we  ought  to  say. 

Another  class,  with  as  little  discrimination, 
have  taken  the  other  extreme,  and  proscribe, 
without  ceremony,  every  thing  in  the  depart- 
ment of  fiction.  This,  it  is  true,  is  very  natural. 
It  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  that  virtuous, 
inteUigent,  thinking  people,  with  their  eye  upon 
the  evil  accomplished  by  modem  romances, 
should  decide — adopting  the  principle  which  has 
wrought  such  miracles  in  another  branch  of 
reform — upon  total  abstinence  from  all  literary 
productions,  which  wear  not  the  garb  of  sober 
fact,  considering  every  thing  fictitious  as  neces- 
sarily intoxicating  and  poisonous.  Their  no- 
tions, however,  in  our  view,  are  plainly  too 
radical,  and  are  the  result  rather  of  prejudice 
than  of  discriminating  and  unbiassed  judgment. 

The  true  position,  we  conceive,  lies  between 
these  two  extremes.  Fictitious  literature  is  a 
blessing  or  a  curae  according  to  the  moral  and 
social  impress  which  it  bears.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  efficient  modes  of  conveying  both  good 
and  evil  to  the  mind  and  the  heart.  It  is,  in- 
deed, a  most  dangerous  engine  in  the  hands  of 
wicked  men.  But  it  can  be  wielded  with  the 
happiest  results  by  writers  who  have  caught 


the  inspiration  of  morality  and  piety,  as  well 
as  profound  learning  and  brilliant  genius.  Our 
Saviour  used,  not  unfrequently,  to  take  advan- 
tage of  this  mode  of  instruction ;  and  no  one 
needs  to  be  told,  that  some  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  impressive  sentiments  that  fell  from  his 
lips  and  are  left  on  record  for  us,  are  in  the  form 
of  parables,  or  allegories. 

But  it  is  no  part  of  our  purpose,  at  present, 
to  discuss  this  point.  Nor  shall  we  attempt 
to  draw  the  precise  line  between  those  works 
of  fiction  which  are  either  positively  happy  in 
their  influence,  or  are  simply  negatively  inno- 
cent, (if  such  a  thing  is  possible,)  on  the  one 
hand,  and  those  which  have  a  tendency  to  dis- 
sipate the  mind  and  poison  the  affections,  on  the 
other  hand.  We  wish  rather  to  draw  attention 
to  the  fact,  which  is  gradually  becoming  more 
palpable  and  alarming  to  us,  that  romances  of 
the  baser  class  find  their  way  more  readily  to 
the  firesides  of  the  virtuous,  Christian  family, 
than  formerly — that  there  is  a  growing  insensi- 
bility in  the  community,  to  the  evil  influence  of 
this  species  of  literature — that  works  of  fiction 
of  a  tone  of  morals  formerly  proscribed  in  intel- 
ligent, virtuous  families,  have  now  free  ingress 
there,  or,  at  least,  are  admitted  and  tolerated, 
with  little  of  the  appearance  and  less  of  the 
strictness  of  quarantine.  From  the  era  of 
Walter  Scott,  we  think  there  is  discoverable  a 
downward  tendency  in  the  morality  of  fashion- 
able novels  ;  and  it  grieves  us  to  concede,  as 
we  are  compelled  to  do,  that  the  wave  of  for- 
eign literature,  which  bears  on  its  bosom  blight 
and  death  wherever  it  rolls,  is  making  some 
advances  in  the  domestic  sanctuaries  of  those 
who,  in  other  respects,  sustain  a  high  character 
for  moral  principle  and  active  piety,  and  who 
would  lose  a  right  arm  rather  than  knowingly 
yield  an  inch  to  the  genius  of  vice.  We  can 
scarcely  be  mistaken  in  our  fears.  It  must  be 
so.  How  otherwise  are  we  to  interpret  the 
kind  apologies  for  the  most  dangerous,  though 
most  fashionable  novels  of  the  French  school, 
which  wo  now  so  often  hear  from  the  lips  of 
men  and  women,  who,  we  have  been  fain  to 


AND    NOVEL    READERS     AT    HOME. 


19 


believe,  are  governed  by  religious  principle? 
Why,  it  seems  to  be  necessary,  not  unfrequently 
— strange  enough,  after  all  that  has  been  said- 
it  seems  to  be  necessary  to  go  back  to  first  prin- 
ciples, and  gravely  to  debate  the  question  with 
thinking,  reasoning,  virtuous.  Christian  readers, 
whether  Eugene  Sue's  romances  may  not,  on 
the  whole,  do  more  good  than  mischief!  The 
political,  perhaps  the  philosophical  notions  they 
inculcate,  are  many  of  them  represented  to  be 
sound  and  worthy  of  respect ;  and  so  we  are 
called  upon  to  consider  whether  these  acknow- 
ledged excellences,  in  some  portions  of  a  novel, 
may  not  counterbalance  the  conceded  vicious 
influences  of  the  rest !  Just  as  if  a  work,  when 
weighed  in  the  balances,  might  be  admitted  to 
be  a  companion  for  our  sons  and  daughters, 
according  to  its  aggregate  of  sound  politics  and 
philosophy,  when  it  is  acknowledged  that  its 
influence  is  most  harmful  upon  the  heart. 

A  rapid  glance  at  the  history,  for  the  last 
half  century,  of  the  light  literature  current  in 
the  families  of  Anglo-American  Christians,  par- 
ticularly that  department  which  may  be  classed 
under  the  head  of  romance,  must  satisfy  every 
one  that  in  its  moral  tone,  there  has  been  a 
lamentable  deterioration,  and  that,  among  the 
d  iss,  who,  of  all  others,  might  be  expected  to 
be  most  solicitous  for  the  morals  of  their  fami- 
lies, there  has  been  a  yielding  of  ground. 

How  was  it,  for  instance,  in  the  latter  por- 
tion of  the  last  century  ?  What  was  the  char- 
acter, then,  of  the  works  of  fiction  which  were 
prepared  for  virtuous  readers  in  England  and 
America?  The  sewers  of  iniquity  in  France 
did  indeed,  at  one  period,  force  their  turbid, 
deadly  waters  across  the  British  channel,  and 
thence  some  drops  found  their  way  to  this 
country.  But  aside  from  these  issues,  which 
had  a  brief  popularity  among  Ciiristians  (nom- 
inally such)  in  this  country,  we  look  in  vain 
for  the  poisonous  works  which  have  obtained 
such  a  currency  in  these  days.  In  the  age  of 
Johnson,  we  venture  to  say,  it  would  have  been 
a  very  difficult  matter  to  find  a  book,  inculcating 
the  morals  (if  that  term  is  not  a  misnomer)  of 
"  Eugene  Aram,"  to  say  nothing  of  the  "  Mys- 
teries of  Paris,"  in  the  hands  of  strictly  moral 
young  men  and  women.  We  assert,  without 
fear  of  contradiction,  that  a  serpent  would  have 
been  received  with  as  much  cordiality  in  the 
domestic  circle  of  such  men  as  Wilberforce, 
and  Newton,  and  Cowper,  as  either  of  these  lit- 
erary excrescences,  The  works  of  fiction  which 
were  then  found  upon  the  tables  of  pious  fami- 


lies were  wh&t  they  professed  to  be — teachers 
of  a  pure  morality,  if  not  preceptors  of  genu- 
ine, spiritual  religion ;  and  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  youth  were  made  better  by 
wholesome  truths  conveyed  in  this  manner. 
Before  a  virtuous  parent  admittted  a  novel  into 
the  bosom  of  his  family,  we  are  warranted  in  be- 
lieving that  he  ascertained  what  was  the  char- 
acter of  its  author,  and  assured  himself  of  its 
innocence  at  least,  if  not  of  its  positive  healthful 
influence.  What  a  contrast  do  our  modem 
novels  present,  to  the  tales  which  were  then, 
after  a  rigid  censorship,  admitted  to  the  social 
circle  of  those  wlio  professed  to  be  governed 
by  the  principles  of  the  religion  of  Christ ! 

Compare  Hannah  More's  "  Coelebs"  with  one 
of  the  most  unexceptionable  novels  of  the  pre- 
sent day,  and  what  a  striking  contrast  is  present- 
ed. The  distinguished  writer  of  that  fiction, 
which  obtained  such  universal  celebrity  among 
all  classes  in  England  and  America,  aimed  in 
this,  as  in  all  her  efforts,  particularly  those  of 
her  latter  years,  to  elevate,  refine  and  bless,  as 
well  as  to  amuse  and  entertain.  She  infused 
into  the  creations  of  her  imagination  the  leaven 
of  virtue  and  religion.  Nor  was  it  that  false 
virtue  which  strains  at  a  gnat  and  swallows  a 
camel ;  or  that  counterfeit,  sentimental,  mawk- 
ish religion,  which  expends  its  energies  ih  buds 
and  blossoms,  and  yields  no  fruit,  ripe  and 
heavenly.  When  we  rise  from  the  reading  of 
such  a  book  as  this  of  hers,  we  feel  that  our  pre- 
cious time  has  not  been  wasted — that  our  pas- 
sions have  not  been  inflamed — but  while  we 
have  been  interested  and  instructed,  a  hal- 
lowed spirit  has  been  breathed  into  the  soul. 
We  are  conscious  that  the  tendency  of  the 
whole  is  to  make  us  better,  and  we  pray  that 
its  legitimate  influence  may  never  be  lost. 
The  most  popular  novels  now  before  the 
American  public,  and  which  are  smiled  into 
favor  to  some  extent  by  American  Christians, 
possess  a  character  widely  different.  The  least 
we  can  say  of  them  is,  that  they  enervate  the 
intellect,  deprave  the  imagination,  inflame  the 
appetites  and  grosser  animal  propensities,  poi- 
son the  affections,  harden  the  heart. 

Take  another  example  from  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
What  is  the  moral  character  and  influence  of 
the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  for  instance  ?  The 
sole  end  and  aim  of  the  author  of  this  book 
would  seem  to  be,  to  induce  a  love  for  all  the 
Christian  virtues  in  the  family  where  it  is  a 
visitor.  Call  that  pleasant  fiction  a  novel, 
call  it  a  romance,  a  love-story,  a  moral  tale — it 


20 


NOVEL    WRITERS    ABROAD    AND    NOVEL    READERS    AT    HOME. 


matters  not  by  what  name  you  designate  it — 
the  moral  lessons  it  teaches  accord  with  the 
spirit  and  tenor  of  the  teaching  of  Christ.  True, 
it  is  destitute  of  all  modem  extravagance.  It 
has  some  piety — cant,  it  would  be  be  called  by 
some,  whose  religion  is  cold  as  a  polar  iceberg 
— in  its  pages.  Love  is  not  caricatured  there. 
The  domestic  and  social  affections,  unstained 
and  pure,  are  naturally  and  symmetrically,  as 
well  as  ingeniously  portrayed.  No  false,  exag- 
gerated views  of  human  nature  are  delineated, 
unless,  indeed,  they  are  held  up  to  ridicule  or 
indignation.  No  insinuation  is  introduced,  un- 
favorable to  virtue  and  spirituality — no  half 
careless,  half  unmeaning  remark,  calculated 
to  bring  a  blush  on  the  brow  of  purity. 

To  a  great  extent,  the  same  is  true  of  the 
fictitious  works  of  Dr.  Johnson.  We  are  far 
from  approving,  unqualifiedly,  all  he  ever 
wrote.  We  never  heard  of  but  one  man  who 
could  do  this  ;  and  he,  we  believe,  has  gained 
no  enviable  fame  by  doing  it.  Johnson  was  a 
great  man,  with  many  littlenesses — a  shrewd 
man,  with  many  palpable  errors  of  judgment — 
a  strong  man,  with  much  imbecility.  We 
think  he  was  unduly  severe,  often  greatly  and 
culpably  unjust,  as  a  critic.  Moreover,  we 
have  never  had  a  very  exalted  notion  of  the 
doctor's  peculiar  stamp  of  piety.  He  seems  to 
have  been  a  religious  man ;  but  his  religion 
often  evaporated  in  rhapsodies  about  the  mere 
washing  of  the  outside  of  the  cup  and  platter — 
too  often,  to  suit  our  own  individual  taste.  Still 
he  was  a  rigid  moralist ;  and  the  creations  of  his 
giant  intellect,  in  the  shape  of  fiction,  admit  of 
no  censure  on  the  score  of  morality  and  virtue. 
If  they  do  not  tend  to  raise  the  soul  toward  hea- 
ven, they  do  not  draw  it  down  toward  the  pit. 

These,  and  such  as  these,  were  the  novels, 
or  (if  that  word  is  here  inadmissible)  the  ficti- 
tious writings,  which  obtained  currency  among 
moral  and  professedly  rehgious  people,  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  last  century,  to  the  exclusion, 
almost  entirely,  of  a  class  of  lax  morality,  tend- 
ing to  make  the  heart  worse  instead  of  better. 

Then  came  the  reign  of  Sir  Walter  Scott — 
.ong  the  Great  Unk7iov>n — since,  in  the  opinion 
of  many,  too  well  known.  It  is  not  our  pur- 
pose to  attempt  a  critique  of  the  productions  of 
this  great  genius — the  greatest  and  most  bril- 
liant in  his  department  of  literary  effort  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  We  think  he  has  been 
too  enthusiastically  extolled,  and  too  radically 
and  unceremoniously  condemned.  This  much 
we  may  say  in  passing,  however,  that,  though 


the  reader  will  find,  throughout  these  novels, 
many  excellent  moral  sentiments — though  he 
will  seldom,  if  ever,  come  in  contact  with  any 
thing  of  a  positively  vicious  and  corrupting 
tendency — he  will  need  the  lamp  of  Diogenes 
to  find  in  these  pages  any  approbation  of  the 
religion  of  the  heart,  unless  that  religion  be  cast 
in  the  authofs  favorite  mould. 

We  intended,  however,  only  to  mention  Scott, 
as  the  master,  or  rather  the  founder,  of  a  new 
school  of  novelists — as  a  sort  of  connecting 
link  between  such  writers  as  Goldsmith  and 
Hannah  More,  in  the  last  century,  and  Bulwer 
and  his  more  shameless  and  unblushing  fellow- 
laborers,  in  this.  The  star  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
had  no  sooner  set  beneath  the  horizon,  than  innu- 
merable luminaries  of  less  magnitude  appeared 
— too  many  of  them  false  lights,  tending  to  lead 
the  soul  away  from  virtue,  purity,  and  heaven. 

We  trust  we  shall  not  be  misunderstood. 
We  do  not  charge  this  great  genius  with  being 
the  willing  cause — he  was  rather  the  innocent 
occasion — of  this  constellation  of  novels,  which 
could  so  well  have  been  spared.  We  believe 
that  there  has  been  an  adulteration  in  the  coin- 
ing of  our  light  literature — that  part  of  it,  at 
least,  which  has  cun*ency  in  virtuous  and  pi- 
ous families — and  we  wish  to  show  that  it  has 
been  adulterated,  and  to  trace  the  causes  by 
which  this  debasing  process  has  been  effected. 
What  a  fall  has  there  been,  in  a  few  brief 
years,  from  Scott  to  Sue  !  Facilis  descensus, 
indeed  !  If,  however,  our  modern  fashionable 
romances,  whether  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  or 
French  school,  were  confined  to  the  circle  of 
libertines  and  infidels,  whose  attachment  for 
the  theatre  is  stronger  than  for  the  house  of 
God,  we  might,  with  some  show  of  reason,  be 
silent.  But  knowing  as  we  do,  that  they  are 
endorsed  practically  with  the  signature  of  those 
who  occupy  the  ranks  of  virtue  and  religion, 
and  that,  in  many  instances,  they — the  genii 
of  such  men  as  Bulwer  and  Sue — are  allowed 
to  be  the  guardian  angels  in  the  chamber  of 
the  young,  long  after  the  evening  orisons  of 
the  family  have  gone  up  to  Heaven,  it  were 
a  crime  to  be  dumb.  Christian  parent !  as 
you  watch,  with  a  parent's  pride,  the  develop- 
ment of  some  fair  flower  in  the  cherished  gar- 
den of  the  domestic  circle,  take  care  that  there 
is  not  a  worm  at  the  root — an  insidious,  stealthy 
foe  to  the  peace  and  purity,  the  beauty  and 
glory,  of  that  flower — which  will  check  its 
healthful  growth,  consume  its  vitality,  and 
prostrate  its  fair  form  in  the  dust ! 


THE    BROTHER'S    FAREWELL.  gi 


IPISIg  JBKD^HlSIE'g  IF^^miSWIglLIt,. 


BY  REV.  FHANCIS  O.  WOODWORTH. 
"  Thy  rest  is  won,  sweet  sister ! — praise  for  this !" — Hkmass. 

Dead  !  art  thou  dead  ? 
Loved  one  !  dost  thou  not  listen  to  my  blessing  ? 
Canst  tliou  not  feel  a  brother's  fond  caressing  ? 

Has  thy  soul  fled  ? 

Oh,  have  I  now 

No  sister  ? — Yet  thy  spirit  seems  to  linger, 

For  death  has  left  few  traces  of  his  finger 

On  thy  fair  brow. 

Alas,  how  soon 
The  things  of  earth  we  love  most  fondly  perish ! 
Why  died  the  flower  our  hearts  had  learned  to  cherish. 

Why,  ere  'twas  noon  ? 

I  cannot  tell — • 
But  though  the  gloomy  grave  be  now  her  dwelling, 
And  though  my  chastened  heart  with  grief  is  swelling, 

I  know  'tis  well. 

'Tis  well  with  thee— 
'Tis  well  with  thee,  thou  pale  and  silent  sleeper  I 
Though  I  am  left,  a  sad  and  lonely  weeper, 

Alas  for  me ! 

How  sweet  the  smile 
I  saw,  when  we  love's  last  office  paid  thee — 
Methought  thy  spirit  blessed  us,  as  we  laid  thee 

To  rest  awhile. 

'Tis  well  for  me — 
'Tis  well — my  home,  since  thou  art  there,  is  dearer^ 
The  grave  is  welcome,  if  it  bring  me  nearer 

To  heaven  and  thee. 

I'll  not  repine — 
No,  blest  one !  thou  art  happier  than  thy  brother ; 
111  think  of  thee,  as  with  my  angel  mother, 

Sweet  sister  mine. 

I'll  check  this  tear — 
Tis  sweet  to  my  sad  heart,  with  sorrow  riven, 
To  think  that  thou  wilt  come  to  me  from  heaven, 

And  bless  me  here. 


23 


BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 


Still  would  I  share 
Thy  love,  and  meet  thee  where  the  flowers  are  springing, 
Where  the  wild  bird  his  joyous  notes  is  singing- 
Come  to  me  there. 

0  come  again, 

At  tlie  still  hour,  the  holy  hour  of  even, 
Ere  one  pale  star  has  gemmed  the  vault  of  heaven- 
Come  to  me  then. 

1  shall  not  dwell 

Long  in  this  stormy  world,  so  full  of  weeping — 
Soon  shall  I  sleep  where  thou  art  calmly  sleeping. 
Sister,  farewell ! 


3BAf=3PILll   (Df  IKDMIKDiGTflEI, 


BY    J.     T.     HEADLEY. 


The  battle  of  Monmouth  was  not  only  one 
of  the  most  important  battles  of  the  Revolution, 
from  the  new  views  it  gave  the  officers  and  na- 
tion of  the  value  of  discipline,  but  it  also  clearly 
illustrates  the  character  of  Washington. 

The  English  army,  ten  thousand  strong, 
had  evacuated  Philadelphia,  and  was  passing 
through  New  Jersey,  on  its  way  to  New  York. 
The  whole  country  was  filled  with  the  march- 
ing columns — the  baggage-train  alone  stretch- 
ing twelve  miles  along  the  road.  On  the  rear 
of  this  army,  in  order  to  cut  it  and  the  baggage- 
train  froui  the  main  body,  Washington  deter- 
mined to  fall,  and  sent  forward  five  thousand 
men  to  commence  the  attack.  The  command 
of  this  belonged  to  Lee,  but  he  refusing  to  ac- 
cept it,  it  was  given  to  Lafayette.  The  for- 
mer, however,  thinking  it  would  have  an  ugly 
look,  to  decline  serving  in  such  an  important 
battle  as  this  promised  to  be,  changed  his  mind 
and  asked  for  the  post  assigned  him,  which 
was  generously  granted  by  Lafayette.  The 
morning  of  the  28th  of  June,  was  one  of  the 
sultriest  of  the  year ;  yet  at  an  early  hour,  Lee, 
who  was  but  five  miles  from  Monmouth,  where 
the  British  army  had  encamped  that  night,  put 
his  troops  in  motion.  Pushing  rapidly  on, 
through  the  broken  and  wooded  country,  he  at 
lengtli  emerged  on  the  plain  of  Monmouth, 
wliich,  like  that  of  Marengo,  seemed  made  on 


purpose  for  a  battle-field.  Forming  his  men 
in  the  woods,  to  conceal  them  from  the  enemy, 
he  and  Wayne  rode  forward  to  reconnoitre, 
and  lo !  all  the  ample  plain  below  them  was 
dark  with  the  moving  masses.  To  the  stirring 
sound  of  music,  the  steady  columns  of  the 
grenadiers  moved  sternly  forward,  their  bayo- 
nets glittering  in  the  morning  sunlight,  while 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  followed  after  the 
immense  train — horses  and  wagons  toiling 
through  the  sand  and  filling  the  air  with  dust. 
Wayne  descended  like  a  torrent  upon  this  line 
of  march,  and  soon  the  sharp  rattle  of  musket- 
ry, and  roar  of  cannon,  and  heavy  smoke,  told 
where  he  was  pouring  his  troops  to  the  charge. 
Lee,  in  the  mean  time,  with  the  rest  of  his  di- 
vision, took  a  circuitous  march  to  fall  on  the 
head  of  the  corps  with  which  Wayne  was  en- 
gaged, when  he  learned  that  the  whole  British 
army  had  wheeled  about  and  was  hurrying 
back  to  protect  the  rear.  That  plain  then  pre- 
sented a  magnificent  appearance.  Far  away 
the  cloud  of  horses  and  wagons  was  seen  hur- 
rying from  the  field,  while  nearer  by,  the  glit- 
tering columns  fell,  one  after  another,  in  the 
order  of  battle — the  artillery  opened  like  a  sud- 
den conflagration  on  the  plain — the  cavalry 
went  dashing  forward  to  the  charge,  and  amid 
the  pealing  of  trumpets,  unrolling  of  standards, 
and  shouts  of  men,  the  battle  commenced. 


BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 


23 


But  at  this  moment,  Lee,  who  had  not  ex- 
pected to  meet  a  strong  force,  and  not  liking  to 
have  a  heavy  battle  thrown  on  him,  with  a 
morass  in  his  rear,  ordered  a  retreat ;  and  the 
brave  Wayne,  grinding  his  teeth  in  rage,  was 
compelled  to  fall  back,  and  came  very  near  be- 
ing cut  off  in  the  attempt.  Across  the  morass, 
and  over  the  broken  country,  the  division  kept 
retreating,  with  the  victorious  columns  of  the 
British  in  full  pursuit. 

In  the  mean  time  Washington,  ignorant  of 
this  shameful  retreat,  was  marching  up  with 
the  other  division  of  the  army.  As  the  sound  of 
the  first  cannonade  broke  dull  and  heavy  over 
the  woods,  the  troops  were  hurried  forward, 
and  the  soldiers,  eager  for  the  encounter,  threw 
aside  their  knapsacks,  and  many  of  them  their 
coats,  and  with  shouts  pressed  rapidly  on.  It 
was  a  terrible  day — the  thermometer  stood  at 
ninety-six — and  as  tjiat  sweltering  army  toiled 
through  the  sand  &ad  dust,  many  sunk  in  their 
footsteps  overpowered  by  the  heat.  Washing- 
ton had  dismounted  where  two  roads  met,  and 
stood  with  his  arm  thrown  over  the  neck  of  his 
white  steed  that  was  reeking  with  sweat,  listen- 
ing to  the  cannonading  in  the  distance,  and 
watching  his  eager  columns  as  they  swept 
along  the  road.  Far  in  advance,  he  heard  the 
thunder  of  artillery  that  was  mowing  down  his 
ranks,  while  before  him  fluttered  the  flag  of  his 
country,  soon  also  to  be  enveloped  in  the  smoke 
of  battle.  A  shade  of  anxiety  was  seen  on  that 
calm,  noble  countenance ;  but  the  next  moment 
it  grew  dark  as  wrath.  A  horseman,  bursting 
into  his  presence,  cried  out  that  Lee  was  in 
full  retreat,  bearing  down  with  his  divided 
ranks,  full  on  his  own  advancing  columns. 
The  expression  of  his  face  at  that  moment  was 
dreadful,  and  with  a  burst  of  indignation  that 
startled  those  around  him,  he  sprang  to  the 
saddle  and,  plunging  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
launched  like  a  thunderbolt  away.  A  cloud  of 
dust  alone  told  where  he  and  his  suite  sped 
onward,  and  those  who  looked  on  him  then, 
with  his  usually  pale  face  flushed,  and  his  blue 
eye  emitting  fire,  knew  that  a  storm  was  soon 
to  burst  somewhere.  He  swept  in  a  headlong 
gallop  up  to  the  van  of  the  retreating  army, 
and  the  moment  his  white  horse  was  seen,  the 
brave  fellows,  who  had  not  been  half  beaten, 
sent  up  a  shout  that  was  heard  the  whole  length 
of  the  lines,  and  " Long  live  Washington" 
rent  the  air.  Flinging  a  hasty  inquiry  to  Os- 
good, as  to  the  reason  of  this  retreat,  who  re- 
plied, with  a  terrible  oath,  "  Sir,  we  are  fleeing 


from  a  shadow;"  he  gallopped  to  the  rear, 
and  reining  up  his  horse  beside  Lee,  bent  on 
him  a  face  of  fearful  expression,  and  thundered 
in  his  ear,  as  he  leaned  over  his  saddle-bow, 
"  Sir,  I  desire  to  know  wliat  is  the  reason  ana 
whence  arises  this  disorder  and  confusion."  It 
was  not  the  words,  but  the  smothered  tone  of 
passion  in  which  they  were  uttered,  and  the 
manner  which  was  severe  as  a  blow,  that  made 
this  rebuke  so  terrible.  Wheeling  his  steed 
he  spurred  up  to  Oswald's  and  Stewart's  regi- 
ment, saying,  "  On  you  I  depend,  to  check  this 
pursuit ;"  and  riding  along  the  ranks  he  roused 
their  courage  to  the  highest  pitch  by  his  stir- 
ring appeals,  while  that  glorious  shout  of 
"  Long  live  Washington"  again  shook  the 
field.  The  sudden  gust  of  passion  had  swept 
by ;  but  the  storm  that  ever  slumbered  in  his  bo- 
som was  now  fairly  up,  and  gallopping  about  on 
his  splendid  charger,  his  tall  and  commanding 
form  lowering  above  all  about  him,  and  his  no- 
ble countenance  lit  up  with  enthusiasm,  he 
was  the  impersonation  of  all  that  is  great  and 
heroic  in  man.  In  a  moment  the  aspect  of  the 
field  was  changed — the  retreating  mass  halted 
— officers  were  seen  hurrying  about  in  every 
direction,  their  shouts  and  orders  ringing  above 
the  roar  of  the  enemy's  guns.  The  ranks 
opened,  and  under  the  galling  fire  of  tlie  enemy, 
the  steady  battalions  wheeled,  and  formed  in 
splendid  order.  Washington  then  rode  back 
to  Lee,  and  pointing  to  the  firm  front  he  had 
arrayed  against  the  enemy,  exclaimed,  "  Will 
you,  sir,  command  in  that  place  ?"  He  replied 
yes.  "  Well,"  then  said  he, "  I  expect  you  to  check 
the  enemy  immediately."  "  Your  orders  shall  be 
obeyed,"  replied  the  stung  commander ;  "  and 
1  will  not  be  the  first  to  leave  the  field."  The 
battle  then  opened  with  renewed  fury,  and 
Washington  hurried  back  to  bring  his  own  di- 
vision into  action. 

It  was  a  glorious  triumph  of  discipline,  and 
the  power  of  one  master  mind,  to  see  how  those 
retreating  troops  recovered  their  confidence,  and 
formed  under  the  very  fire  of  their  pursuers, 
before  the  panic  had  been  communicated  to 
the  other  portion  of  the  army. 

But  the  danger  had  only  just  commenced ; 
the  few  regiments  which  had  been  thrown  for- 
ward, could  not  long  withstand  the  heavy 
shock  to  which  they  were  exposed.  Swept  by 
the  artillery  and  enveloped  in  fire,  they  were 
gradually  forced  back  over  the  field.  They 
fought  bravely,  as  if  they  knew  the  fate  of  the 
battle  rested  on  their  firmness,  yet  the  advanced 


24 


BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 


corps  finally  fell  back  on  the  reserve.  On  this, 
too,  the  victorious  legions  of  the  enemy  thun- 
dered with  deafening  shouts — the  grenadiers 
pressed  furiously  forward — the  cavalry  hung 
like  a  cloud  on  our  flanks,  while  the  steadily 
advancing  cannon  galled  the  ranks  with  a  most 
destructive  fire.  Our  whole  line  of  battle  be- 
gan to  shake.  Washington,  with  the  rear  di- 
vision, was  not  yet  up,  and  every  moment 
threatened  to  throw  Lee's  whole  shattered 
corps  back  in  disorder  upon  it.  Every  thing 
quivered  in  the  balance,  but  at  this  terrible 
crisis,  the  noble,  the  chivalric  Hamilton,  with 
his  hat  off  and  his  hair  streaming  in  the  wind, 
was  seen  crossing  the  field  in  a  sweeping  gal- 
lop, making  straight  for  Lee.  Knowing  that 
the  fate  of  the  battle  rested  on  his  firmness,  and 
fearing  he  might  shrink  again  under  the  heavy 
onsets  of  the  enemy,  he  flew  to  his  relief. 
Reining  up  his  foam-covered  steed  beside  him, 
he  exclaimed  in  that  lofty  enthusiasm,  which 
that  day  saved  the  army :  "  I  will  stay  with 
you,  my  dear  general,  and  die  with  you.  Let 
usall  die  here  rather  than  retreat."  Nobly  said, 
brave  Hamilton  ! — the  firmest  prop  of  American 
liberty  stands  fast  in  this  dreadful  hour. 

In  this  critical  moment,  Washington  ap- 
peared on  the  field,  and  rapidly  formed  his  di- 
vision in  front  of  the  enemy.  Casting  his  eye 
over  the  battle,  he  saw  at  a  glance  the  whole 
extent  of  the  danger  and  strained  every  nerve 
to  avert  it.  His  orders  flew  like  lightning  in 
every  direction,  while  full  on  his  centre  came 
the  shouting  headlong  battalions  of  the  enemy. 
Both  his  right  and  left  flank  were  threatened 
almost  simultaneously  ;  yet  calm  and  collected 
he  sternly  surveyed  the  steadily  advancing  col- 
umns, without  one  thought  of  retreating. 
Never  did  his  genius  shine  forth  with  greater 
splendor  than  at  this  moment.  Orderingup  Ster- 
ling with  the  artillery  on  the  left,  and  the  other 
portion  of  the  army  to  advance,  he  watched  for 
an  instant  the  effect  of  the  movements.  Ster- 
ling came  up  on  a  furious  gallop  with  his  guns, 
and  unlimbering  them,  poured  such  a  sudden 
fire  on  the  chasing  columns,  that  they  recoiled 
before  it.  At  the  same  time  the  veteran  Knox 
hurried  up  his  heavy  guns  on  the  right,  and 
began  to  thunder  on  the  dense  masses  of  the 
enemy,  while  the  gallant  Wayne,  at  the  head 
of  his  chosen  infantry,  charged  like  fire  full  on 
the  centre.  The  battle  now  raged  along  tho 
whole  lines,  and  the  plain  shook  under  tho  up- 
roar. But  nothing  could  withstand  the  impet- 
nosity  of  the  Americans,  and  the  fierce  fire  of 


our  artillery.  The  hotly  worked  batteries  of 
Knox  and  Sterling  were  like  two  spots  of  flame 
on  either  side ;  while  the  head  of  Wayne's 
column,  enveloped  in  smoke  and  flame,  pressed 
steadily  forward,  bearing  down  every  thing  in 
its  passage,  and  sweeping  the  field  with  shouts 
that  were  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  artillery. 
Every  step  had  been  contested  with  the  energy 
of  despair,  and'under  the  oppressive  heat,  scores 
of  brave  fellows  had  fallen  in  death,  unsmitten 
by  the  foe. 

The  whole  English  army  retreated,  and  took 
up  a  strong  position  on  the  ground  Lee  had 
occupied  in  the  morning.  Almost  impenetra- 
ble woods  and  swamps  were  on  either  side, 
while  there  was  nothing  but  a  narrow  cause- 
way in  front,  over  which  an  army  could  ad- 
vance to  the  attack.  The  battle  now  seemed 
over ;  for  under  that  burning  sun  and  tempera- 
ture of  ninety-six  degrees,  the  exhausted  army 
could  hardly  stir.  Even  Washington's  power- 
ful frame  was  overcome  by  the  heat  and  toil  he 
had  passed  through,  and  as  he  stood  begrimed 
with  dust  and  the  smoke  of  battle,  and  wiped 
his  brow,  the  perspiration  fell  in  streams  from 
his  horse,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
dragged  through  a  muddy  stream,  rather  than 
rode  by  a  living  man.  The  tired  hero  gazed 
long  and  anxiously  on  the  enemy's  position, 
and,  notwithstanding  its  strength,  and  the  heat 
of  the  day  and  the  state  of  his  army,  determined 
to  force  it.  His  strong  nature  had  been  thor- 
oughly roused,  and  the  battle  he  sought  thrown 
unexpectedly  upon  him,  and  well  nigh  lost,  and 
he  now  resolved  to  press  it  home  on  the  foe. 
All  around  him  lay  the  dead,  and  the  cry  for 
water  was  most  piteous  to  hear ;  while  those 
who  bore  back  the  wounded,  were  ready  them- 
selves to  sink  under  the  heat.  The  eye  of 
Washington,  however,  rested  only  on  the  Eng- 
lish army,  and  ordering  up  two  brigades  to 
assail  it,  one  on  the  right  flank  and  the  other 
on  the  lefl;,  he  brought  the  heavy  guns  of 
Knox  forward  to  the  front.  In  a  few  minutes 
these  tremendous  batteries  opened,  and  the 
English  cannon  replied,  till  it  was  one  constant 
peal  of  tliunder  there  over  the  hot  plain.  In 
the  mean  time  the  burning  sun  was  stooping 
to  the  western  hills,  and  striving  in  vain  with 
its  level  beams  to  pierce  the  smoke  and  dust- 
fUled  atmosphere,  that  spread  like  a  cloud  over 
tho  field.  Still  that  heavy  cannonade  made  the 
earth  groan,  and  still  those  gallant  brigades  were 
forcing  their  way  onward  tlirough  the  deep 
woods  and  over  the  marshes  to  the  attack.    But 


BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 


26 


the  almost  insurmountable  obstacles  that  cross- 
ed their  path,  so  delayed  their  march  that  night 
came  on  before  they  could  reach  their  respec- 
tive positions.  The  firing  then  ceased  and 
darkness  shut  in  the  scene,  For  awhile  the 
tread  of  the  battalions  taking  up  their  positions 
for  the  night,  the  heavy  rumbling  of  artillery 
wagons,  and  the  moans  of  the  wounded,  and 
piteous  prayer  for  water,  disturbed  the  calm- 
ness of  the  sabbath  evening,  and  then  all  was 
still.  The  poor  soldiers,  overcome  with  heat 
and  toil,  lay  down  upon  the  ground  with  their 
arms  in  their  hands,  and  the  two  tired  armies 
slept.  Within  sight  of  each  other  they  sunk 
on  the  field,  while  the  silent  cannon,  loaded 
with  death,  still  frowned  darkly  from  the 
heights  upon  the  foe.  The  young  moon 
just  glanced  a  moment  on  the  slumbering 
hosts,  then  fled  behind  the  hills.  The  stars, 
one  after  another,  came  out  upon  the  sky  like 
silent  watchers,  while  the  smoke  of  the  conflict 
hung  in  vapory  masses  over  the  woods  and 
plain  Washington,  determined  with  the  dawn 
of  day  to  renew  the  battle,  wrapped  his  milita- 
ry cloak  around  him,  and  throwing  himself  on 
the  ground  beneath  a  tree,  slept  amid  his  fol- 
lowers. So  did  Bonaparte,  on  the  first  night 
of  the  battle  of  Wagram,  sleep  by  the  Danube, 
lulled  by  its  turbulent  waters. 

But  at  midnight  the  English  commander 
roused  his  sleeping"  army,  and  quietly  with- 
drew, and  before  morning  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  Washington's  arm.  So  profound 
were  the  slumbers  of  our  exhausted  troops, 
that  no  intimation  of  the  departure  of  the  ene- 
my was  received  until  the  morning  light  re- 
vealed their  deserted  camp.  The  prey  had 
escaped  him,  and  so  Washington  slowly  fol- 
lowed on,  moving  his  army  by  easy  marches  to 
the  Hudson. 

This  battle,  though  not  so  bloody  as  many 
others,  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the 
Revolution.  The  presence  of  mind  and  firm- 
ness of  Washington,  which  restored  it  after  it 
seemed  lost,  the  steadiness  and  bravery  of  the 
troops  that  rallied  and  formed  right  in  the  face 
of  their  pursuers,  and  the  energy  and  strength 
which  not  only  overcame  pursuit  and  restored 
the  day,  but  finally  broke  into  a  furious  offen- 
sive, scarcely  have  a  parallel.  Especially  do 
we  feel  this  to  be  true  when  we  remember  the 
extraordinary  heat  of  the  day,  and  that  the 
troops  from  a  little  after  sunrise  till  sunset, 
marched  and  fought  on  a  field  where  no  water 
was  to  be  had.    I  never  heard  of  a  battle  be- 


fore, lasting  twelve  hours  and  with  the  ther- 
mometer at  ninety-six  Fahrenheit,  it  seema 
impossible  that  troops  could  be  aroused  to  put 
forth  such  exertions  under  such  a  scorching 
sun.  The  fact  that  many  fell  dead  with  a  sun- 
stroke, shows  that  on  this  sandy  plain  tlie  suf- 
fering from  heat  and  want  of  water  must  have 
been  intense.  Over  twenty  thousand  men 
packed  into  that  valley,  and  struggling  a  whole 
day  in  such  a  temperature,  made  doubly  worse 
by  their  own  smoke  and  fire,  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  spectacles  the  history  of  war  pre- 
sents. 

Immediately  after  the  battle,  Washington 
reinstated  Lee  in  his  old  command,  thus  show- 
ing that  he  meant  to  overlook  the  whole  matter. 
But  the  latter  had  been  severely  galled  by  the 
rebuke*  he  had  received,  and,  still  farther  irri- 
tated by  the  severe  remarks  made  by  the  offi- 
cers on  his  retreat,  wrote  a  saucy  letter  to 
Washington,  which  called  forth  a  short  and  se- 
vere reply.  Stung  by  this  additional  attack,  he 
wrote  a  still  more  impertinent  and  ridiculous  let- 
ter, demanding  a  court-martial  to  decide  on  his 
conduct.  Washington  wound  up  his  letter  to 
Lee  with  a  curtness  and  tartness  uncommon 
for  him,  declaring  that  he  "  was  guilty  of  a 
breach  of  orders  and  of  misbehavior  before  the 
enemy ;  in  not  attacking  them  as  he  had  been 
directed,  and  in  making  an  unnecessary,  dis- 
orderly and  shameful  retreat.  Lee's  rej)ly  was : 
"  You  cannot  aflford  me  greater  pleasure,  sir, 
tlian  in  giving  me  an  opportunity  of  showing  to 
America  the  efficieHcy  of  her  respective  ser- 
vants. I  trust  that  the  temporary  power  of 
office  and  the  tinsel  dignity  attending  it,  will 
not  be  able,  by  all  the  mists  they  can  raise, 

*  There  is  some  doubt  about  the  exact  language 
used  by  Washington  on  this  occasion.  Weems 
says  that  he  exclaimed,  as  he  rode  up,  "  For  God's 
sake.  General  Lee,  what's  the  cause  of  this  ill- 
timed  prudence ;"  to  which  the  latter  replied,  "  No 
man,  sir,  can  boast  a  larger  portion  of  that  ras- 
cally virtue  than  your  excellency."  This  eccen- 
tric historian,  I  know,  is  not  considered  very  reliable 
authority;  but  the  language  here  given  corresponds 
precisely  to  the  characters  of  the  two  men,  in  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  they  then  were,  and  to  me 
bears  internal  evidence  of  truth.  Mr.  Sparks  in- 
forms me  that  he  once  asked  Lafayette  at  La  Grange, 
what  the  expression  of  Washington  was  on  that  oc- 
casion. He  replied,  that  he  did  not  know  and, 
though  near  them  both  at  the  time,  could  not  have 
told  an  hour  afterwards.  He  said  it  was  not  the 
language  but  the  manmr — no  one  had  ever  before 
seen  Washington  so  terribly  excited ;  his  whole 
appearance  was  fearful. 


20 


BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 


to  offiiscate  the  bright  rays  of  truth  In  the 
mean  time  your  excellency  can  have  no  objec- 
tion to  my  retiring  from  the  army."  A  more 
insulting  letter  could  scarcly  have  been  writ- 
ten, and  he  was  put  under  arrest  immediately. 
In  August  the  court-martial  sat,  and  he  was  ^ 
tried  under  three  charges:  First,  for  disobeying  \ 
orders  in  not  attacking  the  enemy;  second,  for  '^ 
"making  an  unnecessary  and  disorderly  re- 
treat ;"  and  third,  for  "  disrespect  to  the  Com- 
mander-in-r.hief  in  two  letters."  He  had  a  fair 
trial  and  was  found  guilty  in  all  three  charges, 
except  that  in  the  second,  the  word  "  shameful" 
was  expunged,  and  "  in  some  instances"  insert- 
ed before  "  disorderly."  He  was  suspended  from 
the  army  twelve  months.  This  decision  fell  like 
a  thunderbolt  on  him,  and  his  indignation  against 
Washington  burst  forth  like  a  torrent,  and  never 
lost  its  intensity  till  the  day  of  his  death.  Many 
exceptions  have  been  taken  to  this  decision,  and 
even  Mr.  Sparks  thinks  the  charges  not  fully 
sustained  by  the  evidence.  Lee's  defence  is,  that 
he  did  attack  the  enemy  in  the  first  place,  and 
that  he  did  not  order  a  retreat  in  the  second 
place — that  when  he  found  the  whole  English 
army  on  him,  he  fell  back,  and  Scott's  brigade, 
forming  a  large  portion  of  his  division,  mistak- 
ing an  oblique  movement  of  a  column  for  a  re- 
treat, crossed  over  the  marsh  without  his  orders. 
That  he  could  not  reverse  this  movement  in 
face  of  the  enemy  safely,  and  so  he  fell  back 
also,  intending  to  form  his  men  in  the  first  fa- 
vorable position,  which  did  not  occur  till  he 
reached  Washington.  This  statement  at  first 
sight  is  very  plausible,  but  when  sifted  amounts 
to  very  little.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  mere 
farce,  to  say  he  attacked  the  enemy  in  the 
spirit  of  his  instructions.  On  the  same  ground 
the  firing  of  a  single  platoon  might  be  called 
an  attack.  He  knew,  and  every  body  else 
knows,  that  Washington  meant  more  than  he 
performed  by  an  "  attack."  It  is  ridiculous  to 
quibble  on  the  letter  of  his  instructions  in  this 
way.  Washington  did  not  send  him  forward 
with  five  thousand  men  to  execute  a  ma- 
iMEHvre.  In  the  second  place,  it  is  asserted 
that  Lee's  orders  were  discretionary,  and  there- 
fore he  cannot  be  charged  with  disobedience 
of  them  by  retreating  if  he  thought  best.  His 
orders  were  to  attack  the  enemy,  unless  there 
were  "  powerful  reasons  to  the  contrary."  I 
see  precious  little  that  is  discretionary  in  such 
Rn  order.  No  general-officer  receives  one 
less  so,  unless  he  is  acting  under  the  direct 
eye  of  the  Commander-in-chief;  or  if  he  docF,  it 


is  always  construed  in  this  way.  No  man,  if  or- 
dered with  five  thousand  men  to  "  attack  the  en 
emy  at  all  hazards,''  would  feel  himself  bound  to 
do  so,  if  on  coming  up  there  were  fifty  thousand 
men  strongly  posted,  instead  of  five  thousand 
as  supposed.  A  man  would  be  court-martialed 
for  carrying  out  the  letter  of  his  instructions 
under  such  circumstances.  The  whole  thing 
lies  in  a  nut-shell.  When  a  man  like  Lee  is  sent 
forward  with  half  the  army,  on  purpose  to  com- 
mence the  attack  and  bring  on  a  battle,  he  is 
expected  to  do  it ;  and,  under  such  orders,  he  is 
under  obligation  to  do  it,  unless  he  finds  circum- 
stances so  utterly  different  from  what  was  ex- 
pected, that  thcj-e  can  be  no  doubt  the  Com- 
mander-in-chief would  change  his  orders  if  he 
were  present.  No  such  difference  existed  in 
Lee's  case,  and  he  was  bound  to  put  himself  in 
a  position  where  he  could  commence  the  attack. 
The  whole  defence  made  on  the  word  discre- 
tionary is  a  mere  quibble,  and  only  serves  to 
reveal  the  weakness  of  the  argument  it  is  de- 
signed to  support.  The  mere  fact  that  he 
declares  he  intended  to  make  an  attack,  when 
Scott,  retreating  without  his  permission,  forced 
him  also  to  retire,  shows  how  he  construed  his 
discretionary  orders,  and  makes  all  he  says 
about  having  "  saved  the  army  by  a  timely  and 
judicious  retreat,"  supremely  ridiculous.  He 
either  did,  or  did  not,  design  to  attack  the  ene- 
my, before  Scott  retreated.  If  he  did,  the  retreat 
about  which  he  boasts  so  much  was  an  accident, 
and  not  in  any  way  owing  to  his  excellent  judg- 
ment ;  if  he  did  not,  he  violated  his  orders,  and 
the  whole  story  about  being/or«d  to  retire  by 
Scott's  movement  is  a  falsehood. 

He  has  been  accused  of  designing  to  ruin 
Washington,  but  this  is  not  so  clear.  At  first 
sight  the  plain  facts  seem  to  be — he  went  into 
the  battle  reluctantly,  and  only  to  save  his  re- 
putation, and  hence  would  not  fight  if  he  could 
help  it.  Having  no  confidence  in  his  troops, 
or  in  his  ability  to  make  a  successful  attack, 
he  would  if  possible  refrain  from  doing  it. 
Hence  he  wavered  and  hesitated,  when  the  ut- 
most promptness  and  decision  were  necessary. 
This  uncertain  action  deceived  his  troops,  who 
knew  not  what  was  expected  of  them,  and  so 
Scott  retreated  at  the  first  appearance  of  a  re- 
trograde movement.  Lee,  glad  of  an  excuse 
to  follow  his  wishes,  did  not  order  him  back, 
and  retreated  also.  In  the  mean  time  he  de- 
signed to  occupy  the  first  strong  position  he 
came  to,  but  finding  none,  continued  to  fall 
back  until  met  by  Washington. 


MORAL  EDUCATION  OF  FEMALES. 


27 


There  are  only  two  objections  to  this  chari-  ; 
table  construction.  In  the  first  place,  he  had 
marched  over  the  ground  just  before,  and  he 
knew  that  behind  that  morass  was  the  best  place 
to  make  a  stand  between  him  and  Washington, 
yet  when  the  latter  came  np  there  was  no  de- 
monstration towards  a  rally.  The  second  is,  he 
retreated  nearly  five  miles  without  once  send- 
ing word  to  Washington,  who  he  knew  was 
rapidly  advancing  unapprised  of  his  flight. 
The  excuse,  that  he  expected  to  rally  and  make 
a  stand  every  moment,  and  thought  he  would 
not  shake  the  courage  of  the  advancing  troops 
by  announcing  a  pursuit  he  expected  to  check, 
is  utterly  worthless.  It  might  bear  him  out 
during  the  first  mile  of  his  retreat,  but  not 
when  he  found  himself  to  be  almost  upon  Wash- 
ington's division.  He  was  too  old  a  soldier 
not  to  be  perfectly  aware,  that  there  was  no 
danger  so  great  as  to  come  in  full  flight  unan- 
nounced upon  a  body  of  advancing  troops. 
He  knew  there  was  scarcely  one  army  out  of 
a  hundred  that  could  be  rallied  under  such  a 
s.idden  shock,  and  that  the  steadiest  would  be 
dreadfully  shaken.  It  was  the  height  of  mad- 
ness to  pour  his  five  thousand  disordered  troops 
upon  an  equal  number  unprepared  to  receive 
them :  and  this  refusal  to  apprise  Washing- 
ton of  his  movements  is  the  darkest  thing  about 


the  whole  affair.     Nothing  prevented  the  ca- 
tastrophe he  was  precipitating  but  the  provi- 
dential arrival  of  a  farmer,  who  reported  his 
disorderly  retreat.      Still   it  is  unjust  to  ac- 
cuse Lee  of  the  base  motive  to  destroy  Wash- 
ington.    There  was  never  any  low  trickery  in 
his  actions,  none  of  this  underground  treache- 
rous dealing  about  his  character.    What  he  did, 
he  did  boldly,  nay  defiantly ;  and  hence  it  is  more 
reasonable  to  look  for  an  explanation  of  his  con- 
duct in  these  traits  than  in  one  he  never  seem- 
ed to  possess.     The  truth  of  the  whole  matter 
doubtless  is — his  anger  being  aroused  at  the 
summary  manner  in  which  the  Commander-in- 
chief  had  set  aside  the  decision  of  the  council 
of  war,  he  would  just  as  soon  have  the  attack 
unsuccessful  as  not.   Going  into  the  battle  with 
those  sullen  feelings,  he  put  forth  no  effort  and 
showed  no  zeal,  and  retreated  at  the  first  ap- 
pearance of   strong  opposition.      Attributing 
his  repulse  to  Washington's  self-will,  rather 
than  to  his  own  bad  management,  he,  in  his 
savage  anger,  wished  to  see  him  punished,  and 
determined  to  let  events  take  their  own  course 
— charging  the  whole  responsibility  over  to  his 
obstinacy  in  not  regarding  the  opinions  of  his 
officers.      His  insulting  letter  to  the  latter, 
which  he  knew  would  recoil  upon  liim,  sprung 
out  of  this  same  reckless,  independent  feeling. 


m^lLM,  SIDOTA^KIDIJ   (DJ   MMMiIgS, 


BY    J.     B.    WATEBBURT. 


What  kind  of  training  is  required  that  wo- 
man may  fulfill  the  duties  which  the  Creator 
has  assigned  to  her  ? 

The  answer  to  this  includes  the  whole  range 
of  female  education ;  but  we  shall  confine  our 
remarks  to  one  point,  namely,  the  culture  of 
the  moral  affections.  Piety  and  virtue  bear  to 
intellectual  endowments  a  relation  somewhat 
similar  to  that  which  light  bears  to  vision; 
they  are  the  graceful  and  appropriate  media  of 
their  development.  Any  system  of  education, 
therefore,  which  does  not  include,  as  of  pre- 
eminent importance,  the  culture  of  the  moral 
affections,  is  essential.y  defective.  But  should 
not  this  department  be  left  w:th  the  parent,  or 
be  assigned  to  the  divine  ?     Is  the  mere  instinct 


to  be  charged  with  so  dehcate  a  task  ?  With- 
out wishing  to  lessen  the  responsibility  of  the 
two  former  in  this  matter,  we  still  must  insist 
on  the  teacher's  duty,  to  keep  this  point  in  view 
in  all  the  discipline  which  he  may  exercise, 
and  the  instructions  which  he  may  impart. 

We  cannot  conceive  of  a  well-regulated 
system  of  education  which  does  not  include  it 
Strenuous  efforts  have  been  made  to  separate 
the  two  departments  ;  but  experience  will  prove, 
if  it  has  not  already,  that  such  is  the  mutual 
dependence  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  facul- 
ties, the  latter  cannot  be  properly  developed, 
without  a  co-ordinate  attention  to  the  improve- 
ment of  the  former.  Hence  the  instructor  of 
youth   should  be  a  religious  man ;  and  the 


28 


MORAL  EDUCATION  OF  FEMALES. 


standard  of  piety  and  virtue  should  be  the 
Bible. 

What  is  woman's  loveliest  trait  ?  Is  it  not 
a  high  sense  of  moral  virtue  ?  Is  it  not  a  char- 
acter, chastened  and  purified  by  the  influence 
of  religion  ?  There  is  more  poetry  than  truth 
in  the  idea  of  innate  perfection,  even  with  re- 
spect to  that  sex,  confessedly  superior  in  natu- 
ral grace  and  loveliness.  Woman  partakes  of 
the  sad  inheritance  of  the  fall.  Once  the  com- 
panion of  man  in  holiness,  she  is  now  his  co- 
partner in  sin  and  its  dreadful  consequences. 
Religion  must  therefore  exert  upon  her  its 
transforming  effect,  ere  she  is  fitted  to  dis- 
charge fully  the  duties  of  her  station.  Her 
filial  duties,  her  conjugal  duties,  her  maternal 
duties,  are  all,  in  a  very  important  sense,  reli- 
gious duties.  They  should  be  contemplated 
in  the  light  of  religion,  and  discharged,  not 
simply  from  the  promptings  of  natural  instinct, 
but  tlirough  holier  motives.  Where  this  is  not 
the  case,  passion  is  very  apt  to  supply  the  place 
of  principle,  and  selfishness  may  become  the 
only  stimulus  in  her  responsible  vocation. 

In  Paradise,  woman  was  the  helpmeet  and 
fit  companion  of  man.  The  fitness  was  com- 
plete in  moral,  as  well  as  mental  and  physical 
adaptation.  The  greatest  loss  which  has  ac- 
crued through  sin,  is  the  overthrow  of  that 
moral  perfection  which  assimilated  her  to  an- 
gels. Unless  that  loss  be  supplied  by  the 
grace  of  God,  she  must  remain  disqualified,  in 
a  very  important  sense,  for  the  sphere  to  which 
she  was  originally  appointed. 

If,  as  the  companion  of  unfallen  man,  her 
crowning  excellence  was  holiness,  is  it  less 
needful  now,  when  there  is  so  much  in  his 
rough  and  selfish  nature  that  calls  for  her  soft- 
ening and  chastening  influence  ?  Having  ori- 
ginally proved  the  medium  of  moral  delinquen- 
cy to  her  partner  in  bliss,  there  is  a  moral  pro- 
priety, it  would  seem,  in  her  becoming  now 
the  instrument,  under  God,  of  leading  him  by 
example  and  by  persuasion  back  to  the  "  foun- 
tain of  living  waters." 

The  moral  education  of  females  is,  in  one 
point  of  view,  more  important  even  than  in  tho 
case  of  the  other  sex.  We  refer  to  the  agency 
which  they  have  in  forming  the  character  of 
future  generations.  Tho  earliest  impressions 
— the  very  germs  of  subsequent  character — are 
given  through  female  influence.  National 
characteristics  are  traceable  to  the  nursery. 
There,  in  its  sequestered  duties,  toils  and  sa- 
crifices, are  we  to  look  for  the  nation's  future 


efficiency  and  glory ;  there  are  we  to  look 
for  the  material  to  improve  our  social  and  po- 
litical state  ;  and  thence  are  we  to  derive  the 
standard-bearers  in  the  army  of  God.  The 
world's  redemption  is  intimately  connected  with 
female  influence.  Already  a  signal  mark  of 
this  has  been  given  in  the  exalted  honor  as- 
signed to  one  of  the  sex,  as  a  medium  of  intro- 
ducing to  our  lost  world  "  the  mystery  of  god- 
liness ;"  and  from  that  period  onward,  woman 
seems  destined,  by  her  Christian  virtues  and 
energies,  to  indemnify,  to  some  extent,  the 
loss  which  her  priority  in  sin  brought  upon  the 
race. 

How  contemptible,  in  this  view,  is  a  merely 
fashionable  education,  in  which  the  high  attri- 
butes of  woman's  nature  are  overlooked,  and 
the  child  of  fortune  is  trained  in  merely  grace- 
ful motions,  and  to  flippant  and  heartless  cere- 
monies !  We  have  no  patience  with  a  system 
of  education,  which  robs  woman  of  her  legiti- 
mate influence,  and  makes  her  the  plaything 
of  a  day.  Without  denying  tlie  importance  of 
exterior  polish,  we  yet  place  the  moral  educa- 
tion of  females  first  and  highest.  This  is  the 
grade  which  divine  wisdom  has  given  it.  It 
bears  to  every  other  adornment  the  relation 
which  the  central  gem  bears  to  the  rest  of  the 
diadem. 

Woman  never  has  risen — never  will  rise  to 
the  region  of  her  proper  dignity  without  it. 
Insulated  instances  of  unsullied  virtue,  of  he- 
roic patience,  of  a  chaste  simplicity,  have  been 
transmitted  to  us  through  the  pages  of  the 
classic  historian.  But  the  infrequency  of  such 
examples,  and  the  laudatory  strains  in  which 
they  are  exhibited,  only  serve  to  show  the  ge- 
neral laxity  of  female  morals,  and  the  insuffi- 
ciency of  any  motives,  less  powerful  than 
Christianity  furnishes,  to  elevate  and  perfect 
the  character  of  tlie  sex. 

Where  shall  we  look  for  the  finest  and  most 
natural  exhibitions  of  female  character  ?  Some 
would  point  us  to  tho  Writings  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  or  to  tho  pages  of  his  subsequent  imita- 
tors. But  we  are  not  satisfied  with  these. 
The  very  perfection  with  which  the  novelist 
seeks  to  invest  his  heroine,  deprives  her  of  her 
naturalness — makes  her  evidently  the  creature 
of  fancy,  rather  than  the  type  of  real  existence. 

But  a  still  more  important  defect  is  the  want 
of  a  moral  basis  for  her  virtues.  The  grace 
of  God  has  little  to  do  in  the  production  of 
these  heroines.  Instinctive  loveliness  is  all 
the  religion  which  such  writers  seem  to  con- 


MORAL  EDUCATION  OF  FEMALES. 


23 


gider  necessary.  Poor  human  nature,  with  its 
deep  under-current  of  evil,  is  dressed  up  in 
hj-pocritical  garb,  and  presented  to  us  as  an 
angel  of  light. 

How  different  are  the  moral  portraits  which 
the  unerring  pen  of  inspiration  has  sketched ! 
If  we  would  see  the  character  of  woman  truly 
and  faithfully  drawn,  with  its  weaknesses  and 
its  virtues — weaknesses  tlie  result  of  sin,  and 
virtues  the  production  of  holiness — if  we  would 
see  her  as  she  is,  as  she  ought  to  be,  and  as  by 
divine  grace  she  may  become,  we  must  resort 
to  that  book,  whose  sketches  are  based  on 
deeper  and  more  accurate  views  of  human  na- 
ture, than  are  to  be  found  even  in  a  Scott  or 
in  a  Shakspeare. 

The  perfection  with  which  the  writers  of 
romance  seek  to  clothe  their  characters,  with- 
out any  reference  to  religion,  is  calculated,  in 
several  very  important  respects,  to  mislead  the 
young  and  confiding  heart.  Human  nature, 
by  the  fictitious  impersonation,  is  more  traduced 
than  honored,  whilst  the  necessity  of  religion 
to  perfect  the  character  is  virtually  denied.  The 
contrasted  reality  seems  actually  worse  than 
it  would  have  seemed,  but  for  the  delusive  im- 
pressions which  had  filled  the  imagination  ; 
whilst,  in  the  view  of  many,  characters  so  per- 
fect in  all  the  social  relations  are  pronounced 
as  fit  for  heaven  as  for  earth. 

Human  nature  sufiers,  and  religion  suffers, 
by  such  fictitious  representations.  Though 
committed  in  the  regions  of  fancy,  the  error  is 
not  so  venial  as  many  suppose :  for  the  educa- 
tion of  our  youth — more  especially  that  of 
young  females — is  influenced  by  the  false  col- 
oring and  indirect  scepticism  of  this  species  of 
writing.  The  reaUties  of  life,  and  the  duties  of 
life,  are  so  unlike  all  that  has  been  portrayed 
and  presented,  that  domestic  and  household 
virtues  are  contemned,  whilst  the  motives 
which  should  inspire  and  sustain  them  are 
neither  felt  nor  appreciated. 

Truth  of  every  kind  is  lovely,  and  error  of 
every  kind  is  productive  only  of  evil.  But 
moral  truth  is  more  lovely  than  all ;  and  what- 
ever tends  to  obscure  or  to  pervert,  or  to  anni- 
hilate it — whether  the  mahgn  influence  operate 
through  the  reason  or  the  imagination — strikes 
a  blow  at  the  dearest  interests  of  our  individual 
and  social  being. 

As  the  companion  and  helpmeet  of  man,  in 
a  world  like  this,  where  there  is  so  much  need 
of  sympathy  under  trials  and  encouragement 
under  difficulties ;  where  woman's  province  is 


to  strengthen  man's  purpose  of  good,  and  to 
repress  his  tendencies  to  evil ;  where  she  is  a 
ministering,  rather  than  a  governing  spirit ; 
where  affection  should  always  be  under  the 
control  of  principle ;  in  such  circumstances, 
who  will  not  see  and  admit  the  necessity  of  a 
thorough  moral  education  ?  Compared  with 
it,  all  other  adornments  are  but  as  the  chaff  to 
the  wheat-  They  who  seek  in  female  educa- 
tion nothing  more  than  exterior  accomplish- 
ments ;  those  things  which  captivate,  but  will 
not  endure  ;  which  are  more  calculated  to  draw 
together  superficial  admirers  thaa  to  awaken 
and  secure  the  interest  of  virtuous  minds ;  in- 
flict an  injury  upon  the  sex  and  upon  society, 
more  serious  and  lasting  than  is  generally  ap- 
prehended. The  ulterior  view,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, with  young  females  and  their  natural 
guardians,  is  an  honorable  connection  in  life, 
and  the  prospect  from  such  connection  of  at 
least  an  ordinary  amount  of  happiness.  But 
if  the  lighter  accomplishments  are  the  only,  or 
the  principal,  education  bestowed  upon  them — 
whilst  the  moral  training  is  overlooked — ^how, 
in  the  very  nature  of  things,  can  such  hopes 
be  realized  ?  How  little  companionship  can 
the  man  of  sense  find  in  a  wife  thus  super- 
ficially educated ;  and  how  strongly  tempted 
he  would  be,  under  such  cireumstances,  to 
seek  society  elsewhere  than  at  his  own  fire- 
side. In  perplexity  and  trouble  also — circum- 
stances as  common,  surely,  as  an  unanxious 
and  prosperous  state — of  what  value  would  be 
the  opinion,  even  if  sought,  of  such  a  mind  ? 
How  slender  a  basis  for  mutual  sympathy 
would  exist !  But  the  woman  of  mere  external 
accomplishments  may  be  still  more  unfortu- 
nate. She  may  find  herself  linked  to  one  des- 
titute of  moral  principle ;  whose  admiration 
soon  changes  into  indifference,  and  whose 
respect — ^a  feehng  not  to  be  despised  even  in 
so  intimate  a  relation — she  has  not  the  power 
of  securing. 

As  to  the  education  of  children — especially 
their  moral  training — what  unsuitable  hands 
are  hers  to  conduct  a  business  of  such  vast 
moment ! 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  no  small 
amount  of  domestic  infelicity  may  be  traced  to 
the  defective  moral  education  of  females. 
Self-control  and  self-sacrifice  are  principles 
which  enter  very  sparingly,  we  fear,  into  the 
education  of  young  ladies.  And  yet,  on  the 
exercise  of  these  principles,  more  than  on  any 
thing  else,  depend  the  realization  and  security 


30 


MORAL  EDUCATION  OF  FEMALES. 


of  domestic  bliss.  For  the  want  of  these,  learn- 
ing, even,  is  no  equivalent ;  and  brilliant  ac- 
complishments, without  them,  are  like  the  ver- 
dure on  the  sides  of  a  volcano,  which  a  man 
might  be  willing  to  admire,  but  among  which 
it  would  be  perilous  to  take  up  his  abode. 

The  idea,  then,  of  a  thorough  moral  educa- 
tion, based  on  Christian  principles,  should  never 
he  lost  sight  of,  either  by  parents  or  instructors. 
Other  things  may  be  useful  and  important ;  but, 
in  relation  to  domestic  life  and  tiie  general  in- 
terests of  society,  this  is  indispensable.  Never 
can  woman  exert  her  legitimate  influence  with- 
out it.  Christianity  harmonizes  with  the  mo- 
desty of  her  sex,  by  giving  her  a  great  deal  of 
real,  without  giving  her  a  great  amount  of 
nominal  influence.  It  throws  a  veil  between 
her  and  the  vast  results  which,  in  her  unob- 
trusive sphere,  she  is  capable  of  accomplishing. 
Usefulness,  without  conspicuity,  is  her  legiti- 
mate motto.  The  council-chamber,  the  camp, 
and  the  public  mart  are  uncongenial  and  inap- 
propriate spheres.  Yet  many  an  important 
public  measure,  for  which  the  statesman  re- 
ceives the  eulogy  of  the  age,  may,  peradven- 
ture,  be  traced  to  woman's  influence.  To  the 
mother  of  Washington,  could  it  have  been  a 
less  grateful  vision  to  witness  the  sublime  re- 
sults which  were  wrought  out  by  his  patriot- 
ism and  his  valor,  than  to  have  accomplished 
the  same  by  her  own  direct  instrumentality  ? 
Can  woman's  heart  beat  with  higher  rapture, 
than  when  she  sees  on  the  records  of  honora- 
ble fame  the  name  of  a  son  in  whose  early 
training  she  has  borne  a  conspicuous  part  ? 
Her  pen,  too,  can  persuade,  where  her  voice, 
by  the  verdict  of  her  own  modesty,  should  be 
silent.  The  department  of  letters  is  as  open 
to  her  as  to  the  other  sex ;  and  where  circum- 
stances afford  leisure,  she  may  contribute 
something  to  the  temple  of  science ;  giving 
her  aid,  if  not  in  erecting  the  solid  column,  at 
lea.st  in  furnishing  the  scroll  and  the  acanthus 
to  beautify  its  summit.  In  the  world  of  poetry 
but  fev/  of  either  sex  can,  by  innate  genius,  be 
said  to  be  fairly  naturalized  ;  yet  here  woman 
has  spoken  in  tones  that  have  done  much  to  exor- 
cise from  the  public  mind  the  demoniac  spirit 
which  a  Byron  and  a  Shelley  had  breathed 
into  it.  We  cannot  refuse  our  humble  tribute 
in  this  place,  to  the  gentle  muse  of  a  Hemans, 
whose  plaintive  notes  fall  like  the  tears  of 
angels  over  fallen  humanity. 


It  is  not,  in  general,  by  awakening  visions 
of  greatness,  that  the  female  character  is  to  be 
improved.  It  is  to  but  a  few,  and  at  long  inter- 
vals— as  in  the  case  of  Hannah  More — that 
talents  and  opportunities  are  so  remarkably 
awarded  as  to  render  the  individual  a  great 
public  benefactress.  It  is  rather  in  the  retired 
duties  of  domestic  life  that  woman's  pecuhar 
and  powerful  influence  lies.  She  there  plants 
the  germs  of  a  world's  glory  or  disgrace.  Im- 
mortal material  is  there  put  into  her  hands  ;  a 
trust  v/hich — whether  she  be  aware  of  it  or 
not — has  more  solemnity  and  responsibility 
than  the  framing  of  a  nation's  constitution,  or 
the  planning  of  its  most  important  internal  im- 
provements. Our  glory  and  happiness  as  a 
people  depend  far  more  on  our  moral  and  social 
characteristics  than  on  the  development  of  any 
physical  advantages  which  may  augment  our 
wealth  or  add  to  our  territory.  Hence  the 
nursery  is  the  field  of  hope  and  of  promise,  and 
tkere  is  woman's  influence  exerted  for  a  nation's 
weal  or  woe.  Every  mother  has  a  little  com- 
monwealth of  her  own.  She  is  not  indeed  the 
nominal  head,  but  her  influence  in  that  embryo 
community  is  constant  and  formative.  Madam 
de  Stael,  with  offensive  and  egotistical  vanity, 
inquired  on  one  occasion  of  Napoleon,  who,  in 
his  judgment,  was  the  greatest  woman  of  the 
age  ?  With  some  truth,  but  with  more  irony, 
he  replied,  "  She  who  has  borne  the  greatest 
number  of  children."  Had  he  but  added, 
"and  trained  them  in  the  best  manner,"  the 
reply  could  scarcely  have  been  more  appro- 
priate. 

We  have  offered  these  few  suggestions  to 
illustrate  the  importance  of  educating  the  moral 
principles,  whilst  we  are  aiming  at  the  implan- 
tation of  knowledge.  The  attempt  to  separate 
the  two  is  injustice  to  the  mind.  The  moral 
and  intellectual  character  have  a  connection 
as  intimate  as  the  light  and  heat  of  the  solar 
ray.  We  hope  that  all  who  are  concerned  in 
the  training  of  young  females  will  bear  in 
mind  that  a  merely  ornamental  education  is 
like  the  stucco  which  is  said  originally  to  have 
been  laid  on  the  pyramids.  Time  and  the  ele- 
ments have  long  since  swept  it  all  away ; 
whilst  a  thorough  education — including  the 
discipline  of  the  heart — is  more  enduring  even 
than  the  pyramids  themselves,  outlasting  the 
vicissitudes  of  earth,  mingling  with  the  grand- 
eur and  sharing  the  duration  of  eternity. 


THE    NOVICE. 


SI 


I'lEIIg  H(D¥I[(S]E 


ei    eaU    of    ti>c    iFrentl)    aicbolution 


Translated  from  the  French. 


CHAPTER    L 


THE   FAREWELL. 


The  last  notes  of  the  Vesper  Hymn  had 
died  away  beneath  the  gothic  arches  of  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Pont  of  Avignon.  The  nuns, 
with  a  serious  air,  quitted  silently  their  stalls ; 
the  novices  followed  them  with  eyes  bent  to 
the  ground ;  the  young  pupils,  under  the  care  of 
their  teachers,  with  difficulty  restrained  their 
gaiety  until  they  reached  the  threshold  of  the 
church,  when  they  dispersed  themselves,  like 
a  flock  of  young  birds,  over  a  large  terrace, 
shaded  with  linden  trees:  two  young  girls 
alone,  arm  in  arm,  separated  themselves  from 
their  companions. '  They  reached  a  small  mea- 
dow, which  served  as  a  place  of  retirement  to 
the  nuns,  and  seating  themselves  upon  a  stone 
seat,  remained  for  a  moment  with  clasped  hands 
and  tearful  eyes.  The  eldest  of  these  young 
girls  was  scarcely  eighteen ;  her  lovely  brown 
hair  was  hid  beneath  a  head-band  of  cambric ; 
she  was  fair,  with  a  countenance  expressive  of 
modesty  and  holy  calm,  but  she  possessed  a 
tender  and  affectionate  heart;  her  name  was 
Cecilia  Combault,  pious,  poor,  and  noble.  She 
was  destined  to  take  the  veil  of  St.  Bernard,  in 
the  Royal  Convent  of  St.  Pont. 

Her  companion,  beautiful  and  animated,  with 
sparkling  black  eyes,  and  flowing  ringlets 
parted  on  her  fair  forehead,  wore  a  loose  dress 
of  green  and  white  China  silk,  which  set  off  a 
pretty  figure,  and  her  spotless  white  handker- 
chief was  fastened  under  her  chin,  by  one  of 
the  medallion  pins,  so  much  the  fashion  at  the 
present  day. 

The  countenance  of  Laura  Reger,  usually 
so  cheerful  and  gay,  was  at  this  moment  sad 
and  gloomy :  she  pressed  the  hand  of  her 
friend,  and  said :  "  Must  I  then  leave  you  ? 
Must  I  go,  and  you  remain  ?" 
"  Alas  !  yes,  dear  Laura ;  you  weep." 
"  If  you  only  knew  how  much  my  heart  is 
oppressed  ! — I  shall  no  longer  see  this  dear 
Abbey,  the  nuns  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me. 


our  friends,  our  companions  ;  no  longer  sec. 
you,  my  sister,  my  Cecilia ;  is  it  possible  ?  my 
heart  will  be  with  you  when  I  am  gone." 

"  You  will  also  be  much  regretted ;  but,  Lau- 
ra, you  will  return  to  your  family ;  you  will 
live  with  your  uncle,  who  loves  you  so  much ; 
you  can  attend  upon  him,  and  contribute  to  his 
happiness." 

"  It  is  true,  my  uncle's  house  is  very  gay ; 
but  while  I  shall  be  enjoying  myself,  you  will 
be  alone  and  melancholy,  ray  Cecilia." 

"  We  are  never  sad  when  we  devote  our- 
selves to  God,"  replied  the  young  girl,  with  a 
serious  air.  - 

"  You  have  no  regrets  !  you  do  not  desire  to 
return  to  the  world  !" 

"  This  temple  is  my  world  ;  I  know  no 
other,"  said  Cecilia  with  a  smile  ;  "  I  have  no 
relations  but  my  good  aunt,  and  I  shall  pro- 
nounce, with  all  my  heart,  the  vows  she  has 
pronounced ;  like  her  I  shall  belong  only  to 
the  Lord — it  is  a  noble,  a  glorious  destiny  !" 

"  You  make  me  more  contented  ;  it  is  your 
vocation,  as  the  nuns  say.  I  am  not  so  wise 
as  you,"  added  Laura,  shaking  her  head  ;  "  I 
wish  much  to  see  a  little  of  the  world.  Ah  !  if 
I  could  only  divide  myself  between  the  Abbey 
and  my  uncle's  house  !" 

They  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  re- 
garding each  other  with  tenderness. 

"You  will  not  forget  me,"  said  at  length 
Laura. 

"  Can  you  think  it  possible  ?  My  memory 
is  too  faithful.  But  stop,  I  have  been  thinking 
of  you,  accept  this  trifle  as  a  proof  of  friend- 
ship. I  shall  soon  have  nothing  to  give."  And 
the  young  girl  handed  to  her  companion  a  work- 
bag,  embroidered  with  taste ;  their  ciphers  were 
united  in  the  centre  of  a  wreath  of  flowers. 

"  How  kind  and  attentive  you  arc  I"  cried 
Laura,  "  you  think  of  every  thing,  and  I  have 
nothing  to  give  you.  Ah !  if,"  and  detaching 
the  rich  pin  which  confined  her  handkerchief, 
she  presented  it  to  her  friend,  adding :  "  My 
mother  wore  it,  keep  it  for  my  sake." 


32 


THE    NOVICE. 


"  And  our  vows  of  poverty  ?  have  you  then 
forgotten  them,  my  dear  Laura  ?"  said  Cecilia 
with  a  gentle  mocjtery ;  "  go,  your  pin  is  too 
brilliant  to  fasten  the  veil  of  a  poor  nun." 

"Have  I  then  notliing  to  give  you?"  said 
Laura  sadly. 

"  Will  not  the  remembrance  of  you  be  ever 
present  ?•  Can  I  go  to  the  dormitory,  to  pray- 
ers, to  the  chapel,  without  thinking  of  you. 
Ah !  it  is  not  here  we  can  forget." 

"  Nor  in  the  world,  for  no  where  shall  I  find 
a  friend  like  you." 

A  lay  sister  interrupted  them. 

"  Your  uncle  waits  for  you,  mademoiselle, 
and  the  reverend  Mother  Agatha  wishes  you  to 
hasten." 

"  We  must  then  say  farewell !  pray  for  me, 
Cecilia.  I  shall  not  see  you  to-morrow  when 
I  wake." 

"  Courage,  dear  Laura,"  said  Cecilia  in  a  low 
voice  ;  "  be  happy,  and  think  sometimes  of  us." 

"  Always,  my  Cecilia  ;  farewell !" 

CHAPTER    II. 

Two  years  passed  away.  It  was  in  the  year 
1792,  and  the  report  of  the  events  which  took 
place  in  Paris,  in  Legislative  Assemblies, 
reached  even  the  quiet  of  the  cloister  ;  monas- 
tic vows  were  abolished,  and  the  gates  of  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Pont  had  been  thrown  open  by 
the  commissioners  of  the  executive  power  ;  but 
the  vows  of  the  cloister,  a  powerful  and  invisi- 
ble barrier,  had  held  the  spouses  of  the  Lord 
within  the  sacred  sanctuary  more  securely 
than  bars  or  bolts.  Notwithstanding,  deep 
anxiety  dwelt  within  those  walls,  hitherto  so 
tranquil,  and  it  was  with  timid  steps,  and 
troubled  looks,  that  the  nuns  took  their  way  to 
the  council-chamber,  where  the  Abbess  liad 
summoned  them. 

It  was  an  imposing  sight,  when,  invested  at 
the  same  time  with  religious  authority  and 
feudal  power,  the  Abbess  of  St.  Pont,  surround- 
ed by  her  dignitaries,  seated  herself  beneath 
these  gothic  arches,  clothed  in  gloomy  magni- 
ficence and  sober  grandeur.  The  portraits  of 
their  predecessors  appeared  to  look  down  upon 
those  who  had  succeeded  them  in  the  cloister. 

The  statues  of  the  saints  were  still  standing, 
the  ancient  arches  still  rose  solid  and  majestic, 
defying  the  ravages  of  time,  but  how  much  all 
else  was  changed. 

The  temporal  officers  of  the  Abbey  no  long- 
er hastened  to  obey  the  orders  of  their  superior ; 
the  numerous  vassals  no  longer  rendered  horn* 


\  age  to  their  powerful  sovereign.  The  nuns 
I  alone  clustered,  like  a  timid  flock,  around  the 
I  sacred  throne.  The  reverend  mother,  Gertrude 
of  Combault,  Cecilia's  aunt,  was  distinguished 
among  her  spiritual  daughters  by  her  dignified 
and  amiable  manners,  as  calm  and  firm  in  these 
tempestuous  days,  as  when  she  presided  at  the 
large  assemblies  of  her  order,  to  render  justice 
to  her  vassals.  Her  features  retained  the  same 
expression  of  calm  seriousness,  but  the  fire  which 
animated  the  eyes  of  the  martyrs,  shone  in  her 
looks.  She  made  a  sign,  and  silence  was  es- 
tablished ;  all  the  nuns  accustomed  to  obedi- 
ence, checked  their  fears,  to  listen  to  the  voice 
of  her,  who,  during  many  years,  had  been  their 
guide  and  their  counsellor. 

"  My  children,"  she  said,  "  an  impious  power 
has  taken  upon  itself  the  right  to  violate  the 
vows  received  by  God  himself;  it  is  permitted 
to  destroy  them  ;  it  has  opened  the  doors  of  this 
house,  these  doors  which  you  had  closed  be- 
hind you,  to  protect  you  from  the  corruptions 
of  the  world,  and  the  cares  of  life.  But  thanks 
be  to  God,  none  of  you  have  cast  a  look  behind, 
none  of  you  have  broken  your  vows  to  your 
Saviour,  to  profit  by  the  shtimeful  liberty  of- 
fered you  by  the  world ;  I  look  around  me,  I 
see  you  all  my  sisters,  my  companions,  and  my 
children ! 

"  Dear  brides  of  your  Divine  Master,  no- 
thing— is  it  not  the  truth — nothing  will  ever  in- 
duce you  to  abjure  these  sacred  vows,  these 
voluntary  promises  which  bind  you  to  the  sanc- 
tuary of  the  Lord !  Promise  me,  in  life  or 
in  death,  you  will  continue  faithful  to  your 
vows." 

All  the  nuns,  moved  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  Abbess,  cried  with  a  unanimous  voice : 
"  Oh,  yes  !  we  promise  to  God  and  to  you." 

"  It  is  well,  my  children,  I  receive  this  oath  ; 
neither  in  this  world,  nor  in  heaven  will  the 
daughters  of  St.  Bernard  be  separated  ;  but 
there  are  some  among  you,  who  do  not  belong 
to  the  Lord.  Sister  Odile,  Sister  Hildegarde, 
Sister  Angelica,  approach." 

Three  young  girls  who  wore  the  white  veil 
of  novices  obeyed  the  order  of  the  Abbess. 

"  My  children,  you  are  still  free,  and  this 
house,  which  can  no  longer  shelter  you,  has 
not  the  right  to  detain  you.  Your  families  de- 
mand you ;  return  to  them,  and  remember 
while  in  the  world,  that  you  have  worn  the 
livery  of  the  Lord.  Messengers  from  your 
friends  await  you  ;  go,  my  children,  you  must 
leave  us." 


THE    NOVICE. 


33 


The  young  girls  knelt  and  received  tlie  bless- 
in  c  of  the  Abbess,  then  withdrew  weeping. 

"  And  Sister  Cecilia !"  said  a  timid  voice. 

•'  Cecilia  is  the  last  of  her  family,  she  has 
no  other  relation  but  myself,  no  other  refuge 
than  tills  house,"  replied  the  Abbess  in  a  lov/ 
and  melancholy  tone  ;  "  she  will  share  my  lot 
whatever  it  may  be.  The  sparrow  hath  found 
her  a  house,  the  swallow  a  nest  where  she  may 
lay  her  young." 

"  Even  tiiy  altars,  O  Lord  of  hosts,  my  king, 
and  my  God,  are  the  sanctuary  that  I  desire  !" 
said  a  sweet  and  gentle  voice,  repeating  the 
verse  of  the  Psalm. 

The  Abbess  turned,  Cecilia  leaned  uj)on  her 
chair. 

"  Yes,  poor  dove,  yo^  have  chosen  your  re- 
fuge, but  the  vuh;u*re  is  ready  to  chase  you 
away." 

At  this  moment  the  porteress  entered,  pale, 
and  with  terror  pictured  in  her  countenance. 

'•  My  reverend  mother,"  she  said,  "  the  com- 
missary who  ordered  the  doors  of  the  Abbey 
to  be  opened,  lias  entered  the  outer  court,  fol- 
lowed by  a  body  of  armed  men.  What  are  the 
orders  of  your  reverence  ?" 

"  That  all  the  community  attend  in  the 
chapel :  come,  my  children,  our  place  is  in  the 
sanctuary,  follow  me." 

The  nuns  let  fall  their  veils,  and  two  and 
two  advanced  to  the  chapel,  which  communi- 
cated with  the  audience-chamber  by  a  low- 
arched  door.  The  Abbess  prostrated  herself 
before  the  altar,  the  nuns  took  their  places  in 
the  oaken  stalls,  blackened  by  age.  They  heard 
on  the  stairs,  in  the  court,  in  the  depths  of  the 
cloister,  the  noise  of  a  multitude.  At  length 
the  door  of  the  chapel  was  thrown  violently 
open,  and  a  tall,  fiendish-looking  man  entered, 
followed  by  an  immense  crowd,  ragged  and 
fierce.  The  scene  was  one  of  intense  and 
fearful  agony.  The  contrast  between  the 
pale,  collected,  j)eaceful  Abbess,  and  the  deli- 
cate, shi'inking,  terrified  group  around  her — 
helpless,  yet  mighty  through  their  very  inno- 
cence and  helplessness — and  the  rude  and 
boisterous  crew  that  broke  so  suddenly  upon 
such  uncongenial  ground,  polluting  the  sanc- 
tity and  repose  of  the  retreat  by  unwonted 
violence,  added  to  the  terror  of  the  scene. 
A  brief  pause  ensued,  enforced  upon  the 
rude  assaulters  by  the  sight  that  presented 
itself  to  them.  At  length,  gathering  coui"- 
age  from  their  desperation,  the  crowd  press- 
ed  on,  in  a  manner  at  once   menacing  and 


i    disordered.     The  worthy  chief  of  this  turbu- 

^    lent  army  advanced  to  the  Abbess,  who,  im- 

\    moveable  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  with  proud 

I    and  calm  looks,  appeared  to  defy  tliis  ruffianly 

I    multitude,  with  their  menacing  gestures.     Ce- 

I    cilia  placed  herself  near  her  aunt ;  the  same 

\   resolution,  the   same   courage   sustained    the 

I   virgin  of  twenty  years,  and  the  woman  bending 

>   beneath  the  weight  of  trials  and  mortifications. 

"  What  do  you  waht,"  said  at  length  the 

Mother  Gertrude ;  "  you  who  enter  so  boldly 

into  the  house  of  God  ?" 

"  We  want  the  keys  of  the  Abbey  treasury ; 
deliver  them  to  us  with  a  good  grace,  and  you 
may  depart  in  peace  with  your  gentle  flock ; 
ifnot"-!- 

"  The  treasure  is  a  deposit  confided  to  my 
care  ;  I  shall  only  give  it  to  my  spiritual  supe- 
riors, from  whom  I  received  it,  and  I  order  you 
to  quit  this  house  immediately,  which  you  pro- 
fane by  your  presence  and  your  sacrilegious 
intentions." 

The  commissary  looked  with  astonishment 
at  the  Mother  Gertrude  :  "  You  are  proud,"  he 
said,  "  very  proud,  but  we  shall  know  how  to 
make  you  change  your  tone,  before  the  world 
is  an  hour  older — once  more,  the  keys  !" 

"  Heaven  preserve  me  from  delivering  the 
sacred  vessels  into  your  impure  hands  !" 

"  There  is  no  need  of  so  many  words,"  said 
a  man  in  the  crowd,  approaching  the  chief; 
"  there  is  in  the  altar  a  pyx,  worth  ten  thou- 
sand crowns — it  is  well  known  in  the  country — 
this  way." 

The  Abbess  looked  at  him  who  had  spoken  ; 
it  was  a  farmer,  to  whom  more  than  once,  in 
times  of  scarceness,  she  had  returned  his  dues. 
"  Man  shall  have  for  enemies  those  of  his  own 
house,"  said  she  with  a  sigh. 

The  rebuke  was  not  without  its  eff"ect. 
The  ingratitude  as  well  as  the  violence  and 
wrong  of  his  unmanly  assault,  rose  to  his 
mind  with  clear  and  emphatic  admonition,  in 
spite  of  the  rudeness  of  his  nature,  and  his 
long  familiarity  with  crime.  Seeing  that  he 
was  recognized,  it  was  with  some  difficulty 
that  he  could  summon  the  courage  to  proceed 
in  his  violent  attempt.  But  he  was  committed 
to  his  army,  and  the  prize  was  too  tempting. 
Perhaps,  if  unattended  by  his  more  remorse- 
less crew,  and  left  to  the  impulses  of  his  na- 
ture alone,  as  now  excited  by  the  memoiy  of 
obligations  incurred,  he  would  have  abandon- 
ed his  intent,  and  left  the  Abbess  with  her 
helpless  band  in  the  quiet  in  which  he  found 


34 


THE  NOVICE. 


them.  But  lie  diired  not  shrink  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  comnides,  lest  they  should  taunt 
and  insult  him  for  his  weakness;  and  the  fear 
of  appearing  a  coward  was  sufficient  to  over- 
come the  hesitations  of  kindness,  and  he  re- 
solved not  to  be  thwarted  from  his  purpose. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  commissary  cast  a  covetous  glance  upon 
Vhe  altar;  the  sun  shone  brightly  at  that  mo- 
ment, illuminating  with  its  rays  the  golden  or- 
nanients  of  the  sanctuary. 

The  eyes  of  the  brigand  sparkled,  he  turned, 
siezed  an  nxe  from  the  hands  of  one  of  his 
companions,  and  rushing  within  the  sanctuary, 
cried  :  "  We  shall  have  the  treasure  without 
keys." 

The  terrified  nuns  fell  on  their  knees,  and 
replied  to  the  shouts  of  the  multitude  by  pray- 
ers and  stifled  sobs;  the  intrepid  Abbess  re- 
mained in  the  same  attitude  ;  her  cheeks,  late- 
ly so  pale,  glowed  with  holy  indignation,  her 
looks  raised  towards  heaven,  appeared  to  seek 
an  avenger  from  tlience. 

"  While  1  live,  none  shall  touch  tlie  holy  of 
holies !" 
«  Well,  then,  die  !" 

The  axe  glistened  in  the  air,  and  the  Abbess 
JJft^X.  Pont  fell,  struck  by  a  mortal  blow ;  the. 
^PRood  which  flowed  from  her  forehead,  stained 
her  veil  and  her  scapulary  ;  she  extended  her 
hand  to  Cecilia,  who  knelt  beside  her,  and  mur- 
mured, "  pray  for  them,"  and  expired  calm  and 
courageous  as  she  had  lived.  Blessed  that 
her  closed  eyes  could  not  behold  the  destruc- 
tion of  those  places  so  dear  to  her.  Blessed, 
that  her  ears  heard  not  the  sacrilegious  blas- 
phemies. In  an  instant  the  work  of  destruction 
was  accomplished ;  the  cross  which  adorned 
the  altar  was  cast  on  the  pavement ;  the  sacred 
ornaments,  remarkable  for  their  beauty  and 
richness,  became  the  prey  of  the  spoilers. 

The  trembling  nuns  abandoned  the  desecrat- 
ed chapel ;  Cecilia,  alone,  remained  prostrate 
near  the  body  of  tlie  Abbess ;  she  awaited 
without  fear  that  death  which  she  believed  to 
be  inevitable,  and  in  tlic  midst  of  the  tumult, 
her  inward  prayer  arose  to  Jicavcn,  like  a  bright 
light,  which  the  tempest  could  not  extinguish. 
The  commissary,  laden  with  the  treasure,  was 
on  Uie  point  of  retiring,  when  he  perceived 
her. 


Here  again  his  better  nature  was  near  a 
triumph.  The  sight  of  such  helplessness  and 
innocence  touched  his  feelings,  in  spite  of  the 
excitement  and  fury  which  the  preceding 
scenes  had  necessarily  produced.  There  was 
a  momentaiy  question  arose  in  his  mind, 
whether  to  remove,  by  similar  violence,  the 
object  that  occasioned  this  uneasiness  at  his 
heart,  or  to  attempt  to  atone  for  what  had  al- 
ready been  done,  by  showing  kindness  to  one 
so  pure  and  unprotected. 

"  Who  is  that  young  girl  ?"  he  inquired  of 
one  of  the  servants  of  the  Abbey. 

"It  is  the  niece  of — of  her,"  replied  the 
man,  pointing  to  the  inanimate  body  of  the 
Mother  Gertrude. 

"  Ah  !  I  would  not  spare  one  of  the  race  ; 
come,  my  pretty  one,"  added  he,  touching  Ce- 
cilia with  the  point  of  his  sabre,  "  rise,  and  fol- 
low us." 

"  Follow  you,  where  ?" 

"  Where  ?  .to  prison,  and  from  thence" 

Cecilia  rose  immediately  :  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  veil,  and  with  a  gesture  more 
eloquent  than  words,  she  pointed  to  the  remains 
of  the  Abbess,  and  said :  "  Will  you  not,  at 
least,  bestow  the  rights  of  sepulture  upon  her 
whom  you  have  assassinated  ?" 

"  A  hole  in  the  ground — a  handful  of  lime 
over  her — come,  walk !" 

The  novice,  by  an  effort  of  that  modesty 
which  reigns  supreme  in  some  minds,  sup- 
pressed even  the  expression  of  grief ;  notliing 
betrayed  her  feelings ;  she  walked  firm  and 
tranquil,  in  the  centre  of  this  revolutionary 
rabble  ;  her  peculiar  dress  drew  upon  her  a 
fatal  attention ;  her  white  veil,  the  rosary 
which  was  suspended  from  her  waist ;  these 
proscribed  and  detested  tokens,  discovered  her 
to  the  raging  populace. 

In  this  manner  she  arrived  as  far  as  the 
street,  in  which  was  situated  the  prison,  b»ult 
in  part  on  the  ruins  of  the  Pope's  palace.  Hor- 
rible shouts  rent  the  air  when  she  appeared ; 
she  raised  her  eyes,  an  innumerable  multitude 
thronged  the  street ;  she  shuddered  in  spite  of 
herself,  when  she  beheld  those  looks  of  curio- 
sity, or  implacable  hate,  fixed  upon  her.  Her 
story  circulated  through  the  crowd  ;  "  It  is  a 
nun  of  St.  Pont !  an  aristocrat ! — let  her  die  ! 
let  her  die  !  Why  wait  for  a  trial  ?  Death  to 
the  aristocrats !" 

The  voices  of  the  people  united  in  one  sav- 
age cry  ;  the  commissary  and  his  followers 
were  repulsed,  and  Cecilia  found  herself  sur- 


THE    NOVICE. 


1^5 


rounded  by  a  group  of  cruel,  half-naked  men, 
who  directed  towards  her  the  points  of  their 
swords. 

"  Oh,  my  aunt !"  she  cried,  "  pray  for  me  !" 

Death  hovered  over  her — but  at  the- same 
moment,  the  crowd  opened,  and  gave  place  to 
a  tall  young  man  of  commanding  figure  and 
firm,  decided  manner,  who  was  dressed  in  the 
uniform  of  an  officer ;  he  thrust  back  one  of 
the  men  nearest  to  Cecilia,  and  addressing  the 
troop  of  assassins,  he  said :  "  What  has  this 
child  done  to  you  ?  are  you  men  ?  you  who 
turn  your  arms  against  an  unprotected  girl  ?" 

"  She  is  an  enemy  of  the  people,  she  must 
die !" 

"  An  enemy  of  the  people !  a  girl  who  has 
never  left  her  convent?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  fop,  or  we  will  send 
you  ad  patres  together,"  said  a  man  with  a  fe- 
rocious countenance,  clenching  his  fist  at  the 
young  officer. 

"  Touch  me  not !  and  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  addressing  himself  to  Cecilia,  "  confide  in 
me  ;  fear  nothing,  I  will  die  before  they  shall 
lay  a  hand  upon  you." 

"  Do  not  expose  yourself,"  she  replied,  "  my 
life  is  devoted  ;  your  goodness — your  courage 
may  save  those  who  have  a  wish  to  live." 

Without  listening  to  her,  he  withdrew  her 
from  the  crowd,  and  all  struck  by  his  attitude, 
and  the  resolution  which  flashed  from  his  eyes, 
fell  back  at  his  approacii,  but  the  multitude 
which  opened  its  ranks  to  let  them  pass,  closed 
immediately  behind  them.  Flight  was  impossi- 
ble ;  the  young  people  arrived  thus  at  the  prison, 
still  followed  by  the  people,  whose  fury,  scarce- 
ly subdued,  a  word  or  a  gesture  would  have 
awakened.  The  young  officer  appeared  to 
have  made  up  his  mind ;  he  turned,  and  said 
in  a  loud  voice  :  "  I  deliver  this  woman  to  be 
judged  by  the  people." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  !  officer ;  justice  or  death  !" 

"  Young  lady,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  for 
want  of  a  better,  the  prison  is  a  refuge  ;  when 
the  doors  are  closed,  you  will  be  tranquil  for 
some  days ;  during  that  time  I  will  act,  I  will 
endeavor  to  save  you.     Your  name  ?" 

"  Cecilia  de  Combault.  Yours,  that  I  may 
remember  you  in  my  prayers  ?" 

"  Esteve  Gorsaz ;  enter  quickly  and  fear 
nothing." 

The  door  was  open  ;  Cecilia  passed  under 
the  black  and  gothic  arches,  where  the  com- 
missary had  preceded  her ;  the  charge  was  in- 
scribed ;  they  made  the  young  captive  cross  a 


gloomy  corridor,  and  she  found  herself  in  the 
small  cell  which  served  her  as  a  prison. 

CHAPTER    HI. 

The  visions  of  a  dream  could  not  have  passed 
more  rapidly,  or  presented  a  more  frightful 
tragedy,  than  that  which,  after  having  deprived 
Cecilia  of  her  only  protector,  had  driven  her 
from  the  pure  shelter  where  she  had  passed  her 
youthful  days,  and  placed  her  in  the  horrors  of 
a  prison,  with  the  prospect  of  a  cruel  death. 
The  young  girl  sank  upon  a  bench  ;  she 
pressed  her  forehead  with  her  hands,  as  if  to 
recall  and  concentrate  all  the  powers  of  her 
mind.  The  death  of  her  aunt,  the  violation  of 
the  sacred  temple,  her  own  danger,  and  the 
generosity  of  lier  youthful  defender,  all  rose  to 
her  mind ;  the  remembrance  of  the  Abbess 
caused  her  tears  to  flow,  but  she  restrained 
them  immediately. 

"  We  must  not  weep  for  the  martyrs,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  Oh,  my  aunt !  blessed  ser- 
vant of  the  Lord  !  look  down  upon  your  orphan, 
left  alone  in  this  unhappy  world,  and  obtain  for 
me  the  gift  of  a  death  like  your  own  !  You 
used  to  say, '  The  crown  is  for  tho.se  who  have 
well  fought !'  You  are  now  in  the  army  of 
those  victorious  servants ;  but  in  your  happi- 
ness remember  Cecilia  !" 

These  aspirations  elevated  her  mind  ;  she  felt 
that,  although  alone,  persecuted,  exposed  to 
death,  she  was  not  abandoned. 

"God  is  here!"  she  thought;  "God  is  in 
the  prison ;  he  sees,  and  watches  over  me." 
She  looked  around  to  familiarize  herself  with 
her  new  abode,  which  one  thought  (wonderful 
power !)  had  now  made  dear  to  her.  It  was 
very  small,  with  white  walls,  lighted  by  a  win- 
dow placed  near  the  ceiling ;  an  oaken  stool 
and  a  straw  bed  were  the  only  articles  of  fur- 
niture ;  it  was  almost  a  cell.  The  walls  were 
bare ;  some  inscriptions  badly  traced  in  the 
stones,  revealed  the  sad  leisure  and  the  poign- 
ant sufferings  of  the  poor  prisoners.  But  the 
novice  had  preserved  her  rosary,  and  on  search- 
ing the  pocket  of  her  dress,  she  found  there  a 
small  book ;  it  was  "  The  Imitation,"  a  pre- 
cious volume,  which  contained  within,  light, 
consolation,  peace  and  truth.  She  read  a 
chapter,  and,  strengthened  by  that  Christian 
resignation  superior  to  all  this  v%-orld  can  be- 
stow, she  slept  calmly,  without  having  touched 
the  supper  which  the  jailor's  wife  had  brought 
her. 
On  the  third  day,  she  was  invited  to  descend 


36 


THE    NOVICE. 


to  the  court-yard,  where  all  the  prisoners  were 
assembled.  Cecilia  obeyed  the  summons  with 
reluctance.  She  found  herself  in  a  large  and 
gloomy  court,  where  several  persons  were 
walking,  or  sitting  upon  stone  benches.  The 
men  read  the  papers,  purchased  from  the  port- 
ers ;  the  women  conversed  among  themselves  ; 
but  all  looked  sad  and  melancholy.  They  sa- 
luted Cecilia  with  respect,  without  daring  to 
speak  to  her ;  for  her  dress  inspired  interest, 
and  forbade  familiarity.  She  seated  herself  by 
an  old  lady,  who  took  no  notice  of  her  approach. 
Cecilia  looked  at  her,  and  saw,  with  compas- 
sion, that  she  held  in  her  hand  a  lock  of  jet 
black  hair,  upon  which  her  eyes  were  fixed 
with  a'mournful  expression  ;  from  time  to  time 
she   murmured :    "  My  son  !    my   poor  son  !" 

The  novice,  much  affected,  turned  away  her 
head  ;  but  her  name  repeated  close  by  her  side 
attracted  her  attention.  "  Cecilia,  is  it  indeed 
you  that  I  find  here  !"  said  a  well-known  voice. 
Laura  was  near  her,  embraced  her,  and  loaded 
her  with  questions,  crying  and  laughing  at  the 
same  time,  agitated  by  contending  emotions. 

"  Laura  !  dear  Laura  !"  Cecilia  at  length 
replied  ;  "  why  do  I  find  you  here  ?  Oh,  my 
God !  in  what  a  miserable  place  do  we  meet 
again ;  in  the  court  of  a  prison  !  But  your 
uncle,  where  is  he  ?" 

"  They  have  killed  him  !"  replied  Laura, 
Bhuddering  at  the  recollection.  "  He  had  ene- 
mies, or  rather  the  people  were  jealous  of  him. 
His  riches  attracted  attention,  and  as  he  did 
not  favor  the  principles  of  the  revolution,  they 
made  that  an  excuse  for  putting  him  to  death. 
Oh,  my  uncle  !  my  good  uncle  !  I  saw  him  ; 
what  sufferings  he  endured  !  I  could  do  no- 
thing but  weep  ;  one  of  the  men  became  angry 
witlj  me  and  brought  me  here.  What  melan- 
choly d.iys  and  nights  I  have  passed  in  this 
prison !  during  the  day  I  trembled  at  every 
foot.-5tep,  at  every  noise ;  at  night,  I  fancied  I 
saw  my  uncle,  with  his  white  hair  stained  with 
blood,  his  eyes  open,  in  the  last  agony,  bending 
towards  me  !  Before  this  I  was  s-o  happy ! 
and  you,  my  Cecilia,  and  your  good  aunt  ? 
Alas  !  I  scarcely  dare  inquire  for  her." 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  the  novice,  raising  her 
eyes  to  heaven  ;  "  died  like  a  saint,  as  she  had 
lived.  We  have  both  lost  the  protectors  of  our 
youth  ;  but  our  Father  who  is  in  heaven  will 
protect  and  watch  over  us." 

Cecilia  related  her  sad  story  to  her  friend ; 
but  when  she  pronounced  the  name  of  Estive 
Gorsaz,  she  thought  she  perceived  a  slight 


blush  overspread  Laura's  pale  countenance. 
"  Esteve  Gorsaz  !"  she  repeated  ;  "  my  uncle 
knew  him  ;  he  visited  at  our  house  :  he  is  the 
son  of  a  banker  in  the  city ;  but,  instead  of 
following  his  father's  profession,  he  took  up 
arms  when  war  was  declared,  and  my  uncle 
would  not  see  him  again." 

Cecilia  inquired  no  farther ;  she  obtained 
permission  from  the  jailer  for  Laura  to  share 
her  cell  with  her. 

This  reunion  alleviated  the  pains  and  sor- 
rows of  captivity ;  voyagers  in  a  vessel  ready 
to  sink,  they  were  more  closely  bound  to  each 
other,  and  loved  the  more  the  more  they  suf-. 
fered.  They  excited  each  other  to  courage ; 
the  novice  encouraged  her  friend  by  the 
strength  and  firmness  of  her  mind ;  Laura 
sometimes  brought  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  her 
companion  by  a  ray  of  her  former  vivacity  ;  but 
this  happened  but  seldom,  for  the  trials  this 
young  girl  had  encountered  were  too  great  for 
her  strength.  The  scenes  of  death  through 
which  she  had  passed  had  left  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  her  memory.  Gloomy  fears  and  fright- 
ful dejection  succeeded  these  short  moments  of 
gaiety  ;  when  she  would  weep  in  Cecilia's 
arms,  and  demand  those  days  of  happiness  and 
of  pleasure  which  she  might  never  hope  to  see 
again.  During  these  hours  of  despair,  Cecilia 
discovered  in  the  heart  of  her  friend  an  affec- 
tion, of  which,  perhaps,  she  was  herself  igno- 
rant. The  novice  suffered  with  more  resigna- 
tion, and  contemplated  without  terror  the 
terrible  future  which  awaited  her.  Death 
could  not  alarm  her,  who  had  so  often  medi- 
tated upon  the  close  of  life,  and  who  had  long 
before  renounced  its  joys  and  embraced  its 
severities. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Ten  days  had  passed.  One  morning  while 
Laura  still  slept,  the  jailer's  wife  quietly  called 
Cecilia.  "  You  are  wanted  in  the  parlor,"  she 
said.  "  A  young  man  has  a  ticket  of  admis- 
sion ;  you  must  not  detain  him." 

•'  A  young  man  !" 

"  Oh  yes  !  an  officer.  Come,  come,  ho  has 
good  news,  I  am  sure." 

The  novice  hesitated ;  but  yielding  to  the 
persuasions  of  the  woman,  she  descended. 
Arrived  at  the  grate,  a  man  waited  for  her  on 
the  outside  ;  he  looked  up — she  recognized 
Esteve  Gorsaz.  They  were  alone ;  she  sa- 
luted liim,  and  seated  herself;  he  remained 


THE    NOVICE. 


3T 


standing  before  her,  looking  at  her  with  emo-  ^ 
tion.  \ 

"  Young  lady,"  he  said  at  length,  '  time  is  > 
precious;  suffer  me  to  explain  myself  with  s 
candor.  I  promised  to  save  yon,  and  since  I 
that  moment  I  have  not  ceased  to  tliink  of  you  \ 
— 01*  you,  so  noble,  so  young,  so  worthy  of  in- 
terest! but  I  have  not  been  able  to  prDcure 
your  liberty — they  have  refused  it  to  me !  A 
messenger  from  the  Convention  has  arrived  at 
Avignon ;  and  to-morrow,  perhaps  to-night,  the 
horrible  tribunal  he  has  organized  will  hold  its 
first  meeting.  You  will  be  sent  for,  I  know, 
and  your  appearance  before  these  partial 
judges  is  like  a  sentence  of  death.  Death ! 
and  you  are  scarcely  twenty  years  old !  Death ! 
when  God  permits  you  to  live,  when  you  can 
enjoy  happiness !  and  what  a  death  !  Young 
lady !  Cecilia  !"  he  added,  "  there  is  but  one 
way  by  which  you  can  be  saved,  and  on  my 
knees  I  entreat  yoa  to  accept  of  it !  Become 
my  wife,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  you  shall 
leave  this  place,  free  and  in  safety  ;  for  no  one 
dare  touch  the  wife  of  a  republican  soldier. 
Grant  me  the  power  to  save  you,  to  devote  to 
you  my  life ;  I  only  ask  the  right  to  snatch 
you  from  the  hands  of  the  executioner,  to  con- 
secrate my  days  to  you,  and  to  surround  yours 
with  happiness  and  peace !" 

Cecilia  could  not  reply ;  emotion,  surprise, 
kept  her  silent ;  the  words  of  Esteve  sounded 
in  her  ears ;  she  raised  her  timid  eyes,  and 
beheld  him  beaming  with  hope  and  devotion : 
A  new  world  appeared  to  open  before  her ;  she 
discovered  happiness  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamt,  the  blessing  of  a  union  with  a  true 
and  noble  being ;  she  beheld  herself  the  mother 
of  a  family,  waiting  the  return  of  a  husband, 
who  had  the*  features  and  form  of  Esteve. 

The  young  man  seeing  her  silent  and  pen- 
sive continued :  "  You  are  afraid,  I  can  readily 
conceive,  at  the  thought  of  trusting  yourself  to 
me  ;  you  do  not  know  me,  but  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  am  an  honorable  man,  and  I  love  you, 
Cecilia — ^yes,  I  have  loved  you  since  I  saw 
you,  so  noble,  so  courageous,  in  the  midst  of 
your  murderers.  Is  death  preferable  to  me  ? 
Oh !  save  yourself,  if  not  for  mine,  for  your 
own  sake !  save  yourself,  to  ha  to  me  as  a  sis- 
ter, if  you  will  not  be  my  wife !  All  the  rights 
you  confer  upon  me,  by  becoming  mine  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  I  renounce,  I  restore  them 
to  you  ;  I  wish  only  for  your  life — I  only  wish  i 
for  the  power  to  render  you  happy,  according  j 
to  your  desire."  , 


"  It  cannot  be,"  she  said  with  effort. 

"  And  why  ?  I  am  unworthy  of  you,  I  know 
it ;  but  ready  to  perish  in  the  waves,  will  you 
refuse  the  hand  of  the  vilest  man  stretched  out 
to  save  you  ?  Here  is  a  danger  as  great,  a 
death  more  dreadful.  Cecilia,  do  not  reject 
me  !  Dare  you  destroy  the  instrument  of  your 
deliverance  ?  I  am  ready  to  suffer  every  thing, 
if  I  can  only  save  you  !" 

"  But  are  you  ignorant,"  said  the  young  girl 
hesitatingly,  '•  that  I  belong  not  to  myself,  I  am 
devoted  to  God  ?" 

"  You  have  n<*  pronounced  your  vows,  you 
are  still  free." 

Cecilia  remained  silent  for  a  moment;  the 
conflict  of  her  mind  rendered  her  more  touch- 
ingly  beautiful ;  on  one  side  the  world  offered 
itself  to  her,  with  all  its  attractions,  a  Ufe  of 
happiness  watli  the  only  man  she  could  ever 
love ;  on  the  other,  a  frightful  death — but  be- 
yond that  the  bright  visions  of  eternity. 

The  conflict  did  not  last  long.  '  "These 
vows,"  she  said  with  animation,  "  these  sacred 
vows,  I  have  a  thousand  times  pronounced  in 
my  heart !  I  belong  to  God — by  my  own  free 
choice  I  gave  myself  to  him  when  yet  a  child, 
and  I  entreat  of  him  to  accept  of  the  rest  of 
my  days.  "  Yes,  Lord  !"  added  she  with  en- 
thusiasm, "  I  promised  you  a  life  of  obedience, 
poverty  and  purity ;  receive  my  vows,  O  my 
Divine  Master !  receive  them  yourself,  since  I 
cannot  pronounce  them  in  the  presence  of  your 
ministers,  and  at  the  foot  of  your  holy  altar !" 

Esteve  uttered  a  cry  of  despair,  and  sup- 
ported himself  trembling  against  the  grate. 
Cecilia  was  on  her  knees,  her  eyes  shone  with 
celestial  light,  a  brighter  color  was  on  her 
cheeks ;  never  had  she  appeared  more  beauti- 
ful than  at  the  moment  when  she  devoted  her- 
self to  death. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  said  at  length 
Esteve  quite  overcome ;  "  what  induces  you  to 
despise  thus  your  life  ?  Cecilia !  unhappy 
child !" 

"  Would  you  abandon  yoor  colors  in  the 
moment  of  danger  ?"  she  said  with  warmth. 

"  No,  certainly." 

"  Well,  then,"  and  she  drew  from  her  bosom 
an  ebony  cruci6x,  "  behold  the  standard  of  the 
sovereign  under  whom  I  have  sworn  to  live 
and  to  die ;  ought  I  to  abandon  it  in  the  hour 
of  peril?" 

"  These  are  vain  scruples,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
there  is  yet  another  way ;  listen  to  me,  Cecilia, 
for  the  last  time ;  consent  to  follow  me ;  I  have 


38 


THE    NOVICE. 


here  an  order  to  pass,  which  the  mayor  of  the 
city,  a  friend  of  mine,  granted  to  my  solicita- 
tions ;  he  waits  to  perform  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, and  secure  thus  your  liberty.  Submit  to 
a  mere  ceremony,  which,  I  swear  to  you,  shall 
not  bind  you  for  the  future ;  become  my  wife 
according  to  law,  and  in  a  few  days  you  shall 
pass  the  frontier ;  once  in  Italy,  you  will  de- 
mand, and  will  easily  obtain,  a  divorce ;  you 
will  live  in  the  world  or  in  a  convent,  it  is  im- 
material, so  that  you  are  saved.  I  shall  see 
you  no  more !  you  will  without  doubt  forget 
me ;  still  it  is  immaterial  so  that  you  live  ! 
My  mother  will  receive  you  as  her  daughter, 
during-  the  few  days  you  pass  under  my  roof. 
Come,  Cecilia,  O  come,  accept  the  life  which 
is  again  offered  to  you  !" 

She  looked  at  him  with  grief,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice :  "  I  honor  and  esteem  your  devo- 
tion, sir,  but  I  cannot  consent  to  what  would 
be  perjury  in  my  eyes.  May  Heaven  bless 
you  for  your  kind  intentions,  and  grant  you  a 
happy  life  !" 

"  Without  you  !  no !  no !  Thank  God,  death 
can  be  found  at  the  cannon's  mouth,  as  well 
as  on  the  scaffold,  and  we  shall  not  be  long 
separated." 

"  In  the  name  of  that  love  which  I  believe," 
said  Cecilia  with  a  grave  voice,  "  allow  me  to 
express  to  you  my  last  wish.  You  must  not 
die  for  me,  you  must  live,  for  your  own  happi- 
ness and  that  of  another.  I  have  a  sister,  a 
friend  ;  suffer  me  to  commit  her  to  your  care." 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

•'  Here  a  prisoner  like  myself,  exposed  to  the 
same  dangers.  She  loves  life,  she  is  formed 
foi  happiness.  Oh,  that  it  had  pleased  God 
that  she  had  been  tlie  object  of  your  noble  de- 
votion !  your  vows  would  have  been  accepted, 
she  would  live,  and  you  would  be  happy  with 
one  another." 

"  That  cannot  be,"  said  he  in  Iiis  turn  with 
animation  ;  "  I  love  only  you  !" 

"  What !  the  life  of  a  human  creature  is  in 
your  hands,  and  you  will  deliver  her  to  the 
executioner?  you  can  lift  the  stone  from  her 
sepulchre,  and  you  leave  her  there  to  die  ? 
You  reject  the  only  request  that  I  can  make 
you  2  You  refuse  this  comfort  to  my  last  mo- 
mentH  ?  Since  you  began  to  speak,  Heaven 
inspired  me  with  this  idea,  and  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  have  seen  my  Laura  saved  by 
you,  happy  with  you." 

«  Laura !" 

"  Yes,  Laura  Reger,  my  companion,  the  sis- 


ter of  my  choice  and  my  love.  You  know  her, 
you  know  that  she  possesses  amiable  and  noble 
qualities." 

"  I  do  not  love  her — no  duty  can  oblige  me 
to  make  such  a  sacrifice." 

"  And  if  she  loved  you  with  all  the  love  that 
a  wife  owes  to  a  husband,  could  you  not  love 
her  i  n  return  ?  Pardon,  Laura,  I  have  be- 
trayed the  secret  which  I  discovered  in  your 
heart.  In  the  name  of  the  attachment  of  which 
you  have  given  me  such  a  tender  proof,  fill  not 
my  soul  with  bitterness ;  let  Laura  replace  Ce- 
cilia, and  let  my  last  moments  be  comforted  by 
the  certainty  of  your  happiness.  Y^ou  consent ; 
is  it  not  so,  Estive  ?" 

The  young  man,  completely  vanquished,  fell 
on  his  knees.  "  Y'ou  are  an  angel !"  he  said  ; 
"  and  when  you  speak  I  must  obey.  I  will 
marry  Laura." 

The  novice  clasped  her  hands  and  wept  tears 
of  joy.  "  I  will  send  her  to  you,"  she  said ; 
"  take  her  away  immediately.  You  will  be  her 
father,  her  brother,  and  her  husband.  Be  ten- 
der and  good  to  her,  and  never  let  her  know 
that  you  loved  me  before  her.  Farewell,  Esteve, 
my  last  prayer  shall  be  for  you  both  !" 

Esteve  uttered  a  groan ;  she  made  him  a 
last  sign,  and  left  the  parlor. 

CHAPTER    V. 

Laura  waited  impatiently  the  return  of  her 
friend,  who  embraced  her  and  merely  said, 
"  Monsieur  Gorsaz  is  waiting  to  speak  to  you 
in  tlie  parlor ;  go,  I  flatter  myself  he  has  good. 
news." 

Laura  blushed,  and  stammered  out  a  few 
words.  Cecilia  again  embraced  and  encour- 
aged her,  and  the  porter  opening  roughly  the 
door,  cried,  "  Come,  young  lady,  Captain  Gorsaz 
is  impatient.  He  is  in  favor  with  the  authori- 
ties, and  has  permission  to  see  our  prisoners — 
and  they  will  say  he  has  too  many  privileges  ! 
come,  then,  young  lady  !" 

When  Laura  was  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  Cecilia  pressed  her  hand,  and  pronounced 
the  word,  "  Farewell !"  The  door  was  then 
closed,  the  light  footsteps  of  tlie  young  girl  died 
away  in  the  long  gallery,  and  Cecilia  was  alone. 

An  hour  passed,  an  hour  of  suspense  and 
uncertainty,  and  which  appeared  unusually 
long  to  the  young  prisoner.  At  length  the 
jailor's  wife  entered,  exclaiming :  "  Miss  Laura 
is  gone  !  Captain  Gorsaz  has  taken  her  to 
his  mother,  and  they  say  that  he  is  going  to 
marry  her — however,  she  is  free.     But  in  spile 


THE     YEARS. 


39 


of  all,  she  cried  bitterly,  and  said  she  wanted  to 
return  to  you.  Miss  Cecilia,  that  she  would  not 
leave  you.  The  captain  said,  '  We  will  see 
her  again,  we  will  save  her.'  He  looked  very 
sad  for  a  bridegroom :  oh  !  how  pale  he  was ! 
They  will  make  a  handsome. couple  when  they 
are  a  little  more  cheerful." 

"  Frances,"  interrupted  Cecilia,  "  I  have  a 
favor  to  ask  of  you ;  if  I  die  here — ^you  un- 
derstand me  ? — take  this  little  book  and  this 
rosary  to  Laura  ;  I  shall  leave  them  on  the 
table — she  will  recompense  you.  Farewell, 
Frances ;  God  reward  you  for  your  kindness 
to  me  I" 

Frances,  much  affected,  went  out  bathed  in 
tears. 

Cecilia  looked  around  her,  examined  the 
solitary  chamber,  and  said  softly :  "  All  is  fin- 
ished, Laura  is  saved,  she  will  be  united  to 
him  wliom  she  loves,  Esteve  will  be  happy 
with  her.  All  is  right;  it  only  remains  for 
me  to  die,  and  God  will  support  me.  He  will 
pardon,  I  trust,  the  struggle  I  endured  on  finding 
that  I  could  be  happy  here  below.  Love  for  him 
triumphed,  and  now  I  belong  to  him  forever !" 

That  same  evening  the  novice  was  cited  to 
appear  before  the  revolutionary  tribunal,  in 
spite  of  the  efforts  of  Est&ve,  who  had  again 
petitioned  the  authorities  of  the  city  ;  suspect- 


ed, noble  of  birth,  and  a  nun  by  profession,  the 
sentence  could  not  be  doubtful,  and  she  heard 
it  with  that  intrepid  firmness  which  had  char- 
acterized her  whole  life. 

Our  task  is  finished ;  we  shall  not  follow  her 
during  her  last  night,  which  was  spent  in  prayer 
and  self-communing ;  we  shall  not  follow  her 
to  tlie  scaffold,  where  she  appeared  neither 
pale  nor  agitated  at  the  approach  of  death  ;  but 
where,  to  all  who  beheld  her,  she  was  like  an 
angel  going  to  take  her  flight  towards  heaven, 
and  who,  prejKired  to  leave  tlie  world,  loses 
herself  in  contemplating  the  supreme  bUss  she 
deemed  herself  about  to  possess. 

The  union  of  Esteve  and  Laura,  at  first 
slightly  cold  and  sad,  after  the  birth  of  two 
children  became  more  warm  and  confiding. 
Their  girl,  according  to  the  wishes  of  both 
parents,  was  named  Cecilia ;  and  it  appeared 
that  the  image  of  their  angelic  friend,  always 
present  to  their  memory,  was  reflected  in  the 
heart  and  features  of  that  child.  At  first, 
Esteve  trembled  when  he  found  in  the  eyes  of 
his  daughter  that  look  which  he  had  so  much 
loved ;  at  first,  Laura  would  weep  when  that 
infantine  voice  reached  her  ear ;  and  both 
blessed  God  that  they  had  in  their  house  this 
living  portrait,  this  faithful  representation  of 
the  Novice  of  St.  Pont. 


^lEH   YlgAmg 


BY  EHASMDS  FERRY. 


The  Years  roll  on,  the  Years  roll  on  ; 
And  shadows  now  stretch  o'er  the  lawn, 
Whereon  the  sunlight  fell  at  morn, — 

The  mom  of  mortal  life ; 
And  dusky  hours  to  me  have  come. 
Life's  landscape  now  looks  drear  and  dumb. 
And  quenched  the  light,  and  ceased  the  hum. 

With  which  my  way  was  rife. 

I  now  look  backward  on  the  path 

Whereon  I've  walked  'mid  wrong  and  wrath ; 

I  look,  and  see  how  much  it  hath 

Of  bitterness  to  tell ; 
But  life's  hard  lessons  must  be  learned ; 
By  goading  care  is  wisdom  earned — 
Then  upward  let  the  eye  be  turned. 

And  all  earth's  scenes  are  well ! 


On  roll  the  Y'ears,  the  swift,  still  Years  ; 
And  as  they  pass,  how  feeling  sears — 
How  dryeth  up  the  fount  of  tears — 

Emotion's  fires  grow  dim  ; 
This  pulse  of  hfe  not  long  can  last, 
And  as  the  Y'ears  go  hunying  past. 
The  blooms  of  life  are  earthward  cast. 

And  withered  heart  and  Umb. 

The  Y'ears,  the  Years  sublimely  roll ! 
Unfurling,  like  a  lettered  scroll — 
Look  on  !  and  gamer  in  thy  soul 
The  treasures  of  their  lore ; 
It  is  God's  Writisg  there  we  see ; 
O  read,  with  deep  intensity ; 
Its  truth  shall  with  thy  spirit  be 
When  years  shall  roll  no  more. 


40 


ON    THE    ADAPTATION    OF    INTELLECTUAL    EFFORTS. 


ON    THE 

TO   THE   CHARACTER   OF   HIS   OWN   MIND   AND  THE   CIRCUMSTANCES   IN   WHICH 

HE    IS    PLACED. 

BY    J.    T.     HEADLEY.  '     • 


The  necessity  of  adapting  all  one's  intellec- 
tual efforts  to  the  character  of  his  mind,  fur- 
nishes a  wide  range  of  varied  and  intei'esting 
thought,  finding  illustrations  in  the  mathema- 
tician and  poet,  the  novelist  and  chemist,  the 
historian  and  the  humorist.  To  trace  out  the 
workings  of  different  minds  in  their  peculiar 
departments,  would  be  a  delightful  and  instruc- 
tive task.  "  Know  thyself,"  was  written  on 
the  temple  of  Apollo,  and  though  a  heathen 
injunction,  outweighs  volumes  of  wholesome 
counsel.  Perhaps  there  is  no  motive  ope- 
rating so  powerfully  on  the  mind  of  the 
young  student  as  the  unexpressed  desire  to 
excel  as  a  speaker,  a  man  of  letters  or  of 
genius.  Probably  there  is  no  vision  which 
floats  so  dazzlingly  before  the  spirit  of  the  am- 
bitious scholar  as  the  sight  of  himself  holding 
an  audience  spell-bound  by  the  force  of  his  elo- 
quence or  the  displays  of  his  genius  in  some 
department  of  learning  or  of  art.  If  the  secrets 
of  the  studio  were  revealed,  the  dreams  of  the 
ambitious  sleeper  uttered  aloud,  and  the  irre- 
pressible longings  of  his  spirit  breathed  in 
the  car,  they  would  all  speak  of  this  one  bright 
vision.  True,  this  dream,  except  in  a  few 
cases,  is  never  fully  realized.  It  results  from 
the  consciousness  of  power  which  the  soul 
feels  as  it  first  steps  across  the  threshold  into 
the  great  intellectual  universe,  and  expands  to 
the  deepening,  growing  prospect  above  and 
around  it.  But  a  man  may  sit  forever  and 
gaze  upon  the  hill-top  of  his  desires ;  invested 
though  it  Ix)  with  real  splendor,  without  indus- 
try on  his  part  he  miglit  as  well  gaze  on  the 


moon.  To  have  this  industry  well  applied ;  to 
excel  at  all  in  our  primary  exertion.s,  or  after 
efforts,  we  must  let  the  mind  work  to  its  natu- 
ral tendencies. 

Neither  the  mind  nor  its  tendencies  are 
created  by  education ;  they  are  simply  devel- 
oped, corrected  and  strengthened.  Every  mind 
has  its  peculiarities,  its  own  way  of  viewing  a 
question,  and  its  mode  of  presenting  it.  In 
some  one  thing  it  is  better  than  in  all  others. 
There  arc  the  feebler  and  the  stronger  powers, 
and  to  know  where  one's  intellectual  strength  lies 
is  the  first  lesson  to  be  learned,  but  it  is  one 
that  many  never  learn.  Our  taste  is  not  the 
judge  on  this  point,  for  taste  is  only  a  cultivat- 
ed quality,  receiving  its  character  from  the  in- 
fluences under  which  it  has  been  educated. 
Mistaking  taste  for  genius  is  the  rock  on  which 
thousands  have  split.  It  has  hurried  many  a 
young  and  struggling  author  into  scenes  of 
bitter  disappointipent  and  an  early  grave.  A 
taste  for  poetry  is  not  the  divine  "  afflatu.«,"  nor  a 
love  for  eloquence  its  heaven-imparted  power. 
Mistaking  taste  for  genius  effectually  prevents 
a  man  from  understanding  his  true  intellectual 
strength.  One  perhaps  has  been  educated  to 
consider  the  true  power  of  a  speaker  to  consist 
in  logical  argument  and  calm,  deliberate  dis- 
cussion ;  while  his  own  mind  is  highly  ima- 
ginative, and  its  power  consists  in  tlic  force 
and  beauty  of  its  illustrations  ;  the  new  forms 
under  which  it  presents  truth  ;  its  resistless 
appeals,  and  impassioned  bursts  of  feeling. 
To  comply  with  the  rigid  taste  under  which  it 
has  been  educated,  that  mind  would  leave  un- 


ON     THE    AD^VPTATION 


41 


touched  its  greatest  powers,  and  labor  to  lead 
out  those  most  weakly  developed,  and  which 
never  can  become  more  than  ordinary.  On 
the  other  hand,  a  cool  mathematician,  whose 
imagination  never  flew  beyond  a  diagram,  may 
possess  a  wonderful  penchant  (or  the  pathetic 
and  highly  figurative.  He  may  struggle  for- 
ever, but  his  efforts  will  be  like  measuring 
poetry  by  the  yard  or  gauging  beauty  with  rule 
and  compass.  How  many  illustrations  of  this 
tmth  have  been  presented  to  each  of  us  in  our 
lifetime.  My  memory  refers  this  moment  to 
two.  One,  whose  mind  was  of  a  bold  and  ar- 
dent character,  wished  to  be  reputed  a  cool 
and  laborious  metaphysician.  To  secure  this 
reputation,  he  labored  through  life  against 
Nature  herself.  Sometimes,  when  suddenly 
excited,  he  would  break  away  from  the  fetters 
in  which  he  had  enthralled  himself,  and  burst 
with  startling  power  upon  his  auditors.  But 
ho  controlled  these  ebullitions  of  feeling,  as  he 
termed  them,  and  with  the  power  of  excelling 
as  an  orator,  he  died  as  a  common  metaphysi- 
cian. The  other  probably  never  could  have 
been  a  great  man  ;  yet  all  the  excellence  he 
possessed  consisted  in  the  plain,  practical,  com- 
mon sense  view  he  took  of  a  subject  adapted 
to  instruct  or  benefit  his  hearers.  But  he  had 
a  wonderful  taste  for  the  pathetic.  He  fondly 
believed  he  was  fitted  to  stir  an  audience  with 
lofty  feeling,  and  bear  them  away  on  the  resist- 
less tide  of  strong  emotion.  Mistaking  the  struc- 
ture of  his  mind,  he  consequently  always  failed, 
but  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  no 
human  power  could  arouse  and  agitate  such 
marble  hearts.  He  never  tore  a  passion  to 
tatters  like  a  declamatory  schoolboy,  but  he 
gently  rocked  it  to  rest,  then  made  a  serious 
caricature  of  it.  He  would  turn  even  a  tra- 
gedy into  a  comedy.  "Know  thyself,"  is  a 
difficult  but  necessary  lesson.  Many  a  man 
considers  himself  a  sound  critic  of  a  speaker's 
or  writers  power,  while  he  brings  every  one 
to  the  same  test — his  otcn  taste.  But  minds  are 
as  various  in  their  construction  as  natural 
scenery  in  its  aspects.  There  is  the  bold  out- 
line of  the  mountain  range,  with  its  rocks  and 
caverns  and  gloomy  gorges  ;  and  there  is  the 
great  plain,  with  its  groves  and  streamlets. 
There  are  the  rough  torrent  and  headlong  cat- 
aract, and  there  is  the  gentle  river,  winding  in 
perfect  wantonness  through  the  vale,  as  if  it 
loved  and  strove  to  linger  amid  its  beauties ; 
there  is  the  terrific  swoop  of  the  eagle,  and 
the  arrow-like  dart  of  the  swallow ;  there  are 


the  thunder-cloud  and  rainbow,  the  roar  of  the 
ocean  and  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  south 
wind ;  all,  all  unlike,  yet  all  attractive,  and  all 
possessing  their  admirers.  The  same  Divine 
hand  that  created  and  spread  out  this  diversi- 
s  fied  scenery  has  formed  mind  with  aspects  as 
\  various,  and  it  appears  most  attractive  in  that 
which  the  Creator  has  given  it. 

I  recollect  of  seeing,  some  years  ago,  a  con- 
trast drawn  by  a  western  man  between  Dr. 
Beecher  and  Bishop  M'Dvaine.  I  do  not  recol- 
lect the  author's  name,  nor  can  I  now  recall 
much  of  the  comparison;  but,  among  clher 
things,  he  remarked,  that  the  structure  and 
movement  of  their  minds  were  as  different  as 
the  structure  and  movement  of  their  bodios — 
one  abrupt,  vehement  and  rapid  ;  the  oilier 
calm,  easy  and  graceful. 

The  thoughts  of  one  are  like  a  chest  of  gold 
rings ;  of  the  other,  like  the  links  of  an  iron 
chain.  One  makes  the  sky  above  you  all 
sunshine  and  beauty  ;  tlie  other  makes  one 
half  of  it  too  bright  for  mortal  eye  to  gaze 
upon,  the  other  half  with  thunder-cloud  piled 
on  thunder-cloud,  and  above  all  the  wheels  of 
Providence  rolling.  These  men  are  both  elo- 
quent ;  yet  how  different  the  orbits  in  which 
their  minds  revolve.  One  never  could  be  the 
other.  One  is  the  torrent  among  the  hills ;  the 
other  the  stream  along  the  meadows.  One 
startles ;  the  other  delights.  One  agitates ; 
the  other  soothes.  One  ever  asks  for  the  war 
bugle,  and  pours  through  it  a  rallying  cry  that 
would  almost  wake  the  dead  ;  the  other  cries, 
"  bring  out  the  silver  trumpet,"  and  breathes 
his  soul  into  it  till  the  melody  dies  away  in 
the  human  heart  like  sunset  on  the  heavens. 
Some  one  drawing  a  contrast  between  Lord 
Brougham  and  Canning,  remarks  that  tlie 
mind  of  one  (Lord  Brougham)  is  like,  a  con- 
cave mirror,  converging  all  the  rays  of  light 
tliat  fall  upon  it  into  one  tremendous  and  burn- 
ing focus  ;  the  mind  of  the  other,  like  a  con- 
vex mirror,  scattering  the  rays  as  they  strike 
it,  till  it  shines  and  glitters  from  every  point 
you  view  it.  So  Longinus,  speaking  of  De- 
mosthenes and  Cicero,  says  one  is  like  the 
mountain  torrent,  bearing  away  every  thing  by 
the  violence  of  its  current ;  the  other  a  con- 
suming fire,  wandering  hither  and  thither  over 
the  fields,  ever  burning  and  ever  finding  some- 
thing to  consume.  Every  great  speaker  and 
writer  in  our  own  land  has  his  pecuUar  style, 
that  no  otlier  one  can  appropriate  to  himself. 
How  do  all  these  varieties  occur  ?    From  obey- 


42 


OF    INTELLECTUAL    EFFORTS. 


icg  Uie  great — I  mi^ht  say  greatest — maxim, 
"  Look  into  thine  own  heart,  then  write."  Wal- 
ter Scott  would  doubtless  have  died  an  ordinary 
man  if  he  had  continued  the  law,  to  which  ex- 
ternal circumstances  seemed  resolved  to  chain 
him.  No  one  supposes  that  every  man  has 
powers  so  strikingly  developed  as  those  I  have 
noticed.  The  upward  tendencies  of  some  minds 
are  so  powerful,  that  no  education  can  subdue  or 
change  them,  and.  Titan-like,  they  will  arise, 
though  mountains  are  piled  on  them.  But 
in  more  ordinary  ones  the  better  qualities  are 
not  so  prominent;  they  must  be  sought  out 
and  cultivated.  These  varieties  as  really 
exist  in  the  most  common  intellects  as  in  great 
ones.  A  backwoodsman  very  soon  knows 
whether  he  is  better  on  the  dead  lift  or  vigor- 
ous leap,  but  how  few  who  write  or  speak 
know  in  what  direction  their  minds  work 
with  greatest  power ;  and  yet,  till  they  do,  they 
never  can  receive  their  best  cultivation.  A 
man  destitute  of  imagination  might  as  well 
attempt  to  fly  with  leaden  wings,  as  strive  to 
excel  in  highly  descriptive  and  ornamental  or 
figurative  writing.  While,  on  the  contrary, 
let  one  with  a  youthful,  ardent  and  highly 
imaginative  mind,  assume  the  deliberate  judge 
and  deep  philosopher,  and  aim  to  make  every 
word  weigh  a  pound,  and  he  will  appear  at 
best  like  a  child  with  his  grandfather's  specta- 
cles on.  And  yet  the  world  is  full  of  these 
unnatural  efforts,  till  the  mind  often  loses  all  its 
elasticity  and  playfulness  on  the  one  hand,  and 
all  its  force  and  power  on  the  other.  Indeed, 
sober-minded  men  often  compliment  themselves 
on  the  soundness  of  their  judgments  in  con- 
demning writers  and  speakers,  when  they  ought 
to  be  reproved  for  the  narrowness  of  their 
views.  That  man  who,  on  listening  to  a 
beautiful  poem,  satirically  inquired  at  the  close 
what  it  all  proved,  doubtless  considered  himself 
blessed  with  a  vastly  deep  and  philosophical 
mind.  What  did  it  prove  ?  It  proved  there 
was  harmony  in  the  universe  besides  the  jingle 
of  dollars  and  cents — that  there  was  beauty  in 
the  world  besides  lines  and  angles,  railroads  and 
canals.  Many  seem  to  think  there  is  nothing 
proved,  except  by  a  long  train  of  consecutive 


reason.  As  if  the  stars  and  the  blue  sky,  the 
caroling  of  birds  and  the  music  of  running  wa- 
ters, proved  nothing !  They  prove  much  to 
one  who  has  an  eye  and  ear  to  perceive  and 
understand  them.  Said  a  great  scholar  and 
distinguished  man  once  to  me,  "  Mrs.  Hemans 
never  wrote  a  single  line  of  poetry  in  her  life. 
Vastly  profound  /  Methinks  such  a  man  could 
discourse  systematically  on  the  compact,  scien- 
tifically-built wall  of  a  garden  all  day,  and 
never  behold  a  single  flower  it  enclosed.  For 
such  minds  beauty  and  harmony  are  created  in 
vain.  It  is  this  rigidity  of  taste  that  often  para- 
lyzes the  powers  of  the  finest-wrought  minds. 
The  variety  which  God  has  created  is  disre- 
garded, and  every  one  is  brought  to  the  same 
iron-like  standard.  The  mind  is  doubtless,  in 
a  thousand  instances,  injured  before  it  is  old 
enough  to  compare  for  itself.  How^  many 
parents  regard  institutions  of  learning  as  so 
many  intellectual  mills,  into  which  every 
variety  of  mind  is  to  be  tossed,  and  come  out 
well-bolted  intellectual  flour !  How  little  do 
they  study  the  different  characters  of  those 
under  their  control !  and  while  they  fondly  be- 
lieve they  are  granting  them  equal  opportuni- 
ties by  the  course  they  pursue,  they  are  using 
means  adapted  to  develope  the  best  powers  of 
one  and  the  weakest  of  the  other.  Let  not  the 
reader  suppose  that  the  intellect  is  self-educat- 
ed ;  that  Nature  is  an  unerring  guide,  and  he 
must  follow  as  far  as  she  leads.  She  directs  to 
which  species  the  variety  belongs,  gently  ad- 
monishing man  to  cultivate  it  according  to  the 
character  of  the  plant.  Nor  do  I  suppose  that 
she  has  enclosed  a  path  for  any  particular  mind 
to  tread  in  without  deviation  to  the  right  hand 
or  to  the  left,  but  that  there  is  one  in  which  it 
can  move  with  greater  facility  and  pleasure. 
There  is  one  aspect  of  it  more  attractive  than  all 
the  rest.  I  may  be  considered  as  having  given 
an  undue  importance  to  this  subject,  but  I  am 
confident  that  no  one  has  advanced  far  with- 
out knowing  what  his  best  powers  are.  Culti- 
vate an  ordinary  mind  so  that  it  may  possess 
its  greatest  power,  and  it  will  be  regarded  as 
a  giant  in  this  world  of  misapplied  effort. 


THE  TALE  OF  AN  ITALIAN. 


43 


"ITISIll   ^AllrlS   (DIF  AM   Hf  AILjUAM 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  CITY  LIFE. 


Many  soom  to  have  an  idea  that  the  tales  of 
sorrow  they  hear  are  all  mere  fictions,  because 
they  do  not  sec  the  subjects.  They  do  not  go 
where  they  are  and  seek  them  out.  Sorrow — 
true  sorrow — does  not  show  itself  openly.  In 
a  city  like  New  York,  for  instance,  a  stranger 
would  see,  in  the  crowds  that  throng  the  thor- 
oughfairs,  the  semblance  of  nothing  but  busy 
happiness.  Splendid  misery,  although  it  may, 
and  does  exist,  is  treated  by  those  who  are  its 
subjects,  and  by  others,  only  as  a  poetic  fiction, 
anddoes  not  show  itself  abroad.  Misery  gloats 
and  fats  itself  in  solitude.  That  is  the  proper 
aliment  of  the  heart  tliat  corrodes.  Society 
requires  a  cloudless  brow,  though  the  brain  be- 
neath it  may  throb  with  agony,  and  tiie  heart 
heave  each  pulsation  with  pain.  But  sorrow, 
severe  as  it  may  be  in  the  lialls  of  rank  and 
wealth,  is  but  a  feeble  type  of  the  grief,  and 
misery,  and  despair,  that  are  to  be  found  in  the 
abodes  of  abject  want.  There,  where  life — 
human  life — is  but  a  grade  removed  from  an- 
imal existence — where  its  poorest  comforts 
are  rarely  if  ever  seen — where  food  and  cloth- 
ing are  scarcely  known,  and  warmth  comes 
only  with  the  season's  change — and  where 
blessed  health  is  almost  a  stranger — it  is  there 
that  misery  reigns  in  all  its  ferocity,  and  fixes 
its  iron  fangs  into  the  heart  of  hearts.  Virtue 
may  shed  a  beam  of  joy  into  such  scenes — 
but  where  these  are  co-tenants  with  vice,  it  is 
a  bitter  that  knows  no  sweet.  The  blessed 
sun  rises  in  vain,  for  its  light  brings  no  com- 
fort— and  the  still  night,  with  balmy  sleep, 
offers  no  balm  nor  forgetfulness.  It  is  like 
"  the  valley  of  ihe  shadow  of  death." 

To  the  physician  of  truly  benevolent  feel- 
ings, these  are  scenes  of  every-day  occurrence. 
He  sees  misery  in  all  its  forms,  and,  if  he 
choose,  may  do  much  to  relieve  it.  But  it  is, 
alas  too  often,  his  lot  to  see  the  wretched  lie 
down  and  die  hopeless  of  relief,  and  only 
cheered  in  their  last  hours  by  a  sympathy  that 
comes  too  late  to  save.     Such  was  the  case  with 


_  the  subject  of  the  following  sketch,  taken  from 
my  notes  of  early  practice. 

It  was  one  of  those  damp,  disagreeable  days 
in  the  month  of  January  18 — ,  when  the  so- 
called  January  thaw  was  prevailing,  and  the 
lieavy  snow  which  had  been  for  some  days  lying 
upon  the  ground  was  rapidly  disappearing,  that 
word  was  left  at  my  office  for  me  to  call,  as  soon 
as  I  returned,  at  a  hovel  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
village.  Every  young  practitioner  must  go 
through  the  same  course  of  induction  into  busi- 
ness, by  attending  all  the  poor  and  outcasts  in 
his  neighborhood,  anJ  my  initiation  had  not  yet 
been  completed.  Since  I  have  been  years  in 
business,  I  still  make  it  a  point  cf  stern  duty 
always  to  answer  as  readily  the  calls  of  the 
poor  as  of  the  rich.  I  get  my  pay  from  the 
latter  for  my  care  of  both. 

I  did  not  reach  home  till  after  dark,  wlien,  tak- 
ing my  lantern  in  my  hand,  I  picked  my  way  as 
well  as  I  could  through  the  mud  and  half-melted 
snow  to  the  door  of  the  hovel.  As  is  very  often 
the  case  in  such  circumstances,  there  was  in 
fact  no  sort  of  urgency  for  my  coming,  the  poor 
woman  being  only  "  complaining"  a  little  for  a 
day  or  two.  Kindness,  and  a  control  over  one's 
temper,  however  much  cause  there  may  be  for 
irritation,  is  never  lost,  and  having  administered 
kindly  to  the  trifling  ailing  of  the  woman,  I 
prepared  to  go.  At  this  moment,  a  woman 
from  a  neighboring  house  entered,  and,  seeing 
me,  asked  me  to  call  and  see  a  stranger  who 
had  been  found  sick  on  the  road,  and  brought 
into  her  house  that  afternoon.  I  of  course  went 
immediately  to  see  him,  though  the  place  was 
at  the  distance  of  nearly  half  a  mile.  It  was 
just  on  the  edge  of  a  dense  forest,  and  few 
abodes  of  poverty  can  be  found,  especially  in 
the  country,  to  compare  with  it.  It  consisted 
entirely  of  one  room — and  in  one  corner,  upon 
an  article  meant  no  doubt  for  a  bed,  lay  the 
form  of  a  man  apparently  in  deep  sleep.  This 
I  soon  found  to  be  the  effects  of  some  cold  and 
fatigue.     It  was  with  difficulty  he  could  be 


44 


THE  TALE  OP    \N  ITALIAN' . 


aroused,  and  when  he  was,  I  discovered  that  he 
was  a  foreigner,  and  could  not  speak  English. 
I  accordingly  prescribed  for  him,  and  enjoining 
upon  the  inmates  the  necessity  of  taking  good 
care  of  him  through  the  night  I  left  him. 

January  7th. — Kindness  and  humanity  never 
lose  their  reward.  It  has  often  seemed  to  me 
that  the  helpless  insect,  I  turn  my  foot  aside 
from  crushing  in  the  path,  showed  by  mute  ac- 
tions a  sense  of  gratitude,  and  appreciation  of 
the  act.  I  find  my  patient  of  last  night  sensi- 
ble, and  evidently  deeply  impressed  with  my 
attention.  He  has  been  aroused  from  the 
stupor  in  which  he  lay,  and  considerable  reac- 
tion having  taken  place,  I  have  bled  him  freely 
from  the  arm,  which  has  reheved  the  pain  he 
seemed  to  complain  of  in  his  breast.  He  has 
also  considerable  cough. 

Besides  prescribing  such  medicines  as  he 
requires,  I  have  had  his  other  wants  attended 
to,  so  that  he  is  now  more  comfortably  provided 
for,  although  he  is  too  ill  to  be  removed. 

lOtk. — ^How  stupid  I  have  been.  For  some 
days  past  I  have  been  racking  my  brain  to  un- 
derstand the  signs,  by  which  my  patient  tried  to 
communicate  with  me.  By  one  word  he  ut- 
tered this  morning,  which  I  understood,  I  was 
reminded  that  he  might  perhaps  speak  in  Span- 
ish which  language  1  understand,  and  I  asked 
if  he  could.  He  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of 
extreme  satisfaction,  "  O  si,  senor,  si !" 

I  am  thus  relieved  from  much  embarrassment 
in  treating  his  case,  which  is  a  complicated 
one,  an  old  disease  being  aggravated  by  his  late 
exposure.  I  do  not  believe  he  can  long  survive. 
He  tells  me  he  is  an  Italian,  and  lately  from  his 
own  country. 

13/A. — For  three  days  he  has  been  troubled 
very  much  with  palpitation  of  the  heart  and 
symptoms  which  indicate  extensive  structural 
disease  of  that  organ.  This  morning  I  find  the 
disease  has  acquired  considerable  more  inten- 
sity. After  conversing  some  time  with  him,  he 
suddenly  exclaimed — "  Ah  !  senor,  qui  pena." 

"  Adonde  esta  la  pena  ?"    I  inquired. 

"  Aqui — aqui !"  said  he  laying  his  hand  upon 
his  heart. 

I  was  more  surprised  at  his  manner  than  the 
expression,  and  drawing  my  seat  nearer  to  his 
side  I  inquired  the  meaning  of  it.  He  covered 
his  face  with  his  liands,  and  sobbing  bitterly, 
exclaimed,  "  Victoria — mi  cara  Victoria !"  I 
began  to  fear  his  intellect  liad  been  affected, 
but  soon  mastering  his  feelings  he  said,  "  I 
cannot  tell  yon  now — to-morrow,  if  I  am  alive. 


>  I  am  not  mad,  sir.  When  you  come  to  me 
to-morrow  I  will  tell  you  all." 

After  administering  a  soothing  draught  I 
left  him. 

The  next  morning  I  received  from  him  the 
following  relation.  Told  in  the  soft,  passionate 
language  of  Spain  it  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  my  feelings. 

THE  Italian's  tale. 

I  had  resolved  that  the  memory  of  my  life 
should  go  down  with  me  to  my  grave.  But 
the  few  words  you  have  spoken  to  me  in  a 
tongue  that  is  not  an  utter  stranger  to  my  ear, 
and  your  undeserved  kindness,  have  called  back 
the  thoughts  of  other  days,  and  though  the 
recollection  may  be  bitter  I  will  open  to  you 
my  heart.  It  did  seem  hard  for  me  to  die  thus 
— in  a  strange  land  and  in  such  a  place  without 
a  friend  to  trust  in.  But  now  it  will  not  be  so. 
You  know  what  youth  is,  and  in  your  own  ex- 
perience can  doubtless  find  some  pardon  for 
the  follies  of  one  like  yourself.  All  I  ask  of 
you  is  to  reveal  nothing  till  I  am  dead.  Then 
you  may  do  as  you  please. 

My  family  was  one  of  the  first  in  Florence. 
Being  the  youngest  of  five  sons,  I  was  early 
destined  for  the  Church,  and,  educated  in  all 
the  superstitious  ceremonies  of  the  Catholic 
faith,  was  early  taught  the  belief  that  the 
highest  attainment  was  that  entire  separation 
from  the  world  which  the  leaders  of  our  orders 
professed  to  obtain.  Not  only  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  life,  but  its  pleasures  and  social  en- 
joyments were  condemned,  and  he  who  would 
be  nearest  heaven,  was  he  who  feared  to  miss 
one  footstep  on  earth,  lest  he  should  lose  the 
heaven  beyond.  Yet,  ascetic  as  I  was  taught 
to  be,  I  had  seen  enough  in  my  boyhood,  in  my 
father's  halls,  to  give  me,  at  least,  a  taste  for 
the  world's  pride,  and  it  was  not  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction  that  I  took  the  cowl  and 
commenced  my  mission  in  Spain.  I  travelled 
through  its  beautiful  valleys,  and  saw  proud 
mirth  in  the  courtly  halls,  and  humble  content- 
ment in  the  shepherd's  cot,  and  the  more  I  saw, 
the  more  I  felt  myself  an  outcast. 

I  pass  thus  hastily  over  this  part  of  my  life, 
because  it  was  only  a  scene  of  strife  between 
my  duty  to  God,  and  the  love  of  the  world,  and 
that  I  may  come  to  that  which  decided  my 
fate. 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  lingered  on  the 
mountains  as  I  paused  in  a  deep  valley  in  the 
north  of  Spain.   "I  gazed  on  the  scene,  as  the 


THE  TALE  OC  AN  ITALIAN. 


45 


light  below  pew  dim,  while  above  it  seemed  to  / 
sleep  so  calmly  on  the  mountain  tops.  The 
last  song  of  the  bird  was  heard  as  he  sunk 
quietly  to  rest — the  distant  sound  of  the  flocks, 
as  the  shepherd  drove  them  homeward,  fell  dis- 
tinctly on  my  ear,  and  I  sighed,  for  I  felt  most 
lonely.  As  I  was  rapt  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  beautiful  view  before  me,  a  shepherd  passed, 
and  devoutly  crossing  himself  humbly  asked  my 
blessing. 

"  My  blessing,"  I  replied,  "  you  have,  my  son. 
But  methought  as  I  looked  but  now  upon  this 
vale,  that  ye  who  dwell  witliin  its  peaceful 
bosom,  needed  not  for  human  blessing." 

"  Nay,  father,"  he  said,  "  thy  blessing  is  that 
of  Heaven." 

'■  True,  my  son,"  said  I,  "  but  with  this  quiet 
hamlet  before  me,  I  almost  forgot  ye  needed 
Heaven's  blessings  more.     Night  draws   on 

apace.     I  am  Father  Eugenio" 

'•  ^^'Tlat !"  he  exclaimed,  interrupting  me," 
the  Father  Eugenio  with  whose  virtues  all 
Spain  resounds  V' 

"  Nay,  my  son — my  caihng  forbrds  me  to  < 
listen  to  such  praise,  and  my  heart  is  far  from  i 
it.     Let  us  seek  thy  cot,  for  I  am  weary."  / 

"  The  castle  hall  is  yonder,  and  its  lord  even  \ 
proud  of  Father  Eugenio's  presence."  i 

'•  Nay,  I  seek  not  the  hall  of  pride,  but  the  > 
cot,  where  peaceful,  quiet  happiness  is  found,  S 
and  like  my  master  I  would  shun  the  world's  < 
noise  and  tumult"  I 

In  silence  he  led  the  way,  and  as  he  paused   / 
at  the  cottage  door  the  shades  of  twilight  deep-   I 
ened  into  night.     But  the  moon  rose   from   < 
behind  the  eastern  hills  and  cast  its  gentle  light   l 
upon  the  valley,  and  I  felt  more  deeply  than   > 
ever  before  the  goodness  of  the  great  Author  of  ^ 
all  things.    The  bay  of  the  watchdog  came 
softly  over  tlie  air  from  the  castle,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  interrupt  the  peace  of  the  scene. 
It  was  holy — and  I  felt  how  pure  ought  to  be 
the  hearts  of  those  who  are  brought  up  in  these 
vales,  away  from    the    pomp  and  vanities  of 
the  world.     As  we  entered  the  cottage,  the 
shepherd's  daughter  met  us,  and  when  he  pro- 
nounced my  name,  with  all  the   grace  and 
beauty  of  even  the  humblest  of  Spain's  daugh- 
ters, she  bent  her  knee,  and  crossing  her  hands 
upon  her  bosom,  craved  my  blessing. 

"Heaven  bless  you,  daughter — bless  you," 
said  I,  and  she  rose  and  prepared  the  evening 
repast  for  her  father.  Wearied  and  exhausted 
with  the  toil  of  the  day,  I  sought  my  bed,  and 
slept  in  peace.     How  little  did  I  think  it  was 


for  the  last  time.  How  little  did  I  think,  that 
in  that  vale  where  the  distractions  of  life  were 
unknown,  and  where  at  first  I  had  been  filled 
with  the  purest  emotions,  I  was  doomed  to 
leave  the  last  remnant  of  sanctity,  save  its  out- 
ward garb.  O  cielof — how  my  brain  bums 
with  the  memory.  Little  did  I  think,  when  I 
rose  in  the  morning,  and  prayed  that  the  pas- 
sions that  bind  us  to  earth  and  estrange  us 
from  heaven  might  be  subdued  in  my  heart, 
that  ever  after  an  idolatrous  love,  stronger  tlian 
that  I  gave  to  my  God,  v.-ould  mingle  in  my 
prayers,  and  pollute  the  fountain  of  ray  holiest 
thoughts. 

"  Peace  be  to  this  house,"  said  I,  as  I  entered 
the  room  where  the  family  was  assembled.  At 
the  head  of  the  table  the  father  took  his  seat, 
and  gave  me  the  place  on  his  right  hand.  Op- 
posite me  sat  his  daughter  Victoria,  who  had 
received  me  the  night  before.  My  fatigue  had 
prevented  mp  from  noticing  her  then,  but  now 
as  she  sat  before  me  I  saw  her  in  all  her  native 
beauty.  Her  hair  was  braided  in  a  raven  coro- 
net around  her  brow,  and  better  became  her  than 
a  diadem  of  gems.  And  who  can  look  into  the 
dark  burning  eye  of  one  of  Spain's  daughters 
and  be  unmoved  ?  I  had  before.  I  had  wander- 
ed through  all  that  romantic  countr}%  and  seen 
all  its  beauties,  and  had  laid  my  hand  upon  the 
head  of  her  proudest  maidens  to  bless  them, 
and  forget  them.  Now  I  forgot  I  was  a  conse- 
crated priest  of  the  most  high  God,  and  opened 
my  heart,  to  an  idol  which  entered  its  inmost 
shrine.  Day  passed  by  after  day,  and  still  I 
lingered.  I  visited  the  neighboring  hamlets, 
but  night  always  found  me  under  tlie  same  roof 
with  Victoria.  I  strove  witli  the  passion — I 
tried  to  tear  it  from  my  heart — I  felt  how  utterly 
I  was  separated  from  woman's  love  by  my  sacred 
office — but  I  could  not  go.  The  humble  cot- 
tagers asked  my  blessing,  and  my  soul  shrunk 
in  horror  as  I  felt  how  vain  it  was.  Yet  with 
practised  command  over  my  conduct,  I  did  not 
betray  the  canker  at  my  heart.  With  her  I 
roved  the  valley  and  gazed  on  the  beauties  of 
the  .glowing  world — we  lingered  abroad  at 
twilight,  and  watched  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
as  they  tinged  the  tops  of  the  Pyrenees.  We 
gathered  flowers  in  the  wild  dell,  and  I  taught 
her  their  names  and  their  virtues — and  to  me 
every  herb  and  stone  possessed  a  charm,  while 
her  dark  eye  glowed  in  answer  to  my  descrip- 
tions. She  took  her  guitar  and  sung  the 
"Evening  Hymn  to  the  Vigin,"  and  then  I 
quailed — for  I  felt  my  apostacy. 


46 


THE  TALE  OF  AN  ITALIAN. 


"Why  do  you  tremble,  Father  Eugenio," 
she  inquired.  "  The  chill  air  is  blowing  down 
from  the  mountains — let  us  return." 

And  I  was  a  hyfocrite.  I  replied,  "Nay, 
daughter,  I  thought  of  IIim  and  his  goodness, 
and  my  sin,"  while  I  thought  only  of  her. 

A  month  passed  away  and  still  I  was  there. 
Under  the  sanctity  of  my  garb  no  one  thought 
that  I  gave  one  thought  to  earth  or  its  happi- 
ness, whilst  the  Father  Eugenio,  whose  holi- 
ness was  the  praise  of  all,  was  lost  to  all 
virtue. 

The  heart  that  is  filled  with  strong  feelings 
and  strong  affections  gives  its  own  hue  to  those 
with  whom  it  is  conversant.  We  see  this 
every  day  in  our  intercourse  with  all  our  fel- 
lows. How  then  shall  it  be  with  a  gentle 
woman,  exposed  continually  to  that  intercourse 
which  makes  her  own  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings of  another.  She  becomes  soon  captivated, 
and  so  it  was  with  Victoria.  She  loved  me. 
I  knew  it.  O  no !  she  would  have  never  be- 
lieved that  she  could  sin  so  deeply. 

But  I  must  hasten  on  with  my  story.  I 
returned  one  day  from  a  visit  in  the  valley,  just 
as  the  sun  was  setting,  and  Victoria  stood  by 
the  door  watching  my  approach.  We  gazed 
upon  the  last  ray  as  it  faded  and  left  behind  the 
star  that  warms  all  hearts.  I  spoke  to  her  of 
its  beauty,  and  we  talked  of  the  God  above  till 
I  shuddered  at  my  sinful  hypocrisy.  I  turned 
to  her,  and  with  a  mockery  of  holy  feeling,  said  : 
"  Daughter — to-morrow  I  must  leave  you." 

As  if  it  had  discovered  to  her  her  heart,  with 
the  suddenness  of  lightning  she  said :  "  Leave 
us  to-morrow — leave  wic — O  Father  Eugenio!" 

We  forgot  what  we  were.  We  forgot  all 
but  ourselves,  and  as  I  pressed  her  to  my  heart  I 
exclaimed, "  Victoria — I  love  you — I  love  you !" 

It  is  said  that  those  men  who  have  been 
drowned  and  afterwards  recovered  describe  the 
sensation  of  drowning  as  by  no  means  painful, 
but  on  the  other  hand  attended  with  feelings 
of  pleasure.  But  tiiey  describe  the  feeling  of 
recovery,  as  the  suspended  circulation  is  slowly 
and  painfully  restored,  and  the  blood  creeps 
sluggishly  back  to  its  accustomed  channels,  as, 
beyond  description,  agonizing.  Such  must 
have  been  to  Victoria  the  discovery  of  her 
heart  Slowly  and  imperceptibly  she  had  drank 
In  the  fatil  poison,  deceived  by  its  sweetness, 
till  all  at  once  she  felt  how  much  too  far  she 
had  gone.  As  if  the  words  I  had  spoken  had 
restored  her  to  her  virtue,  she  withdrew  from 
my  embrace,  and  with  a  strange  mastery  over 


her  heart,  she  said,  "  Father,  I  have  sinned — 
forgive  me  :  let  us  part." 

"Part!"  said  I;  "we  whose  hearts  have 
beat  like  one  ?  Yes,  Victoria,  we  must  part. 
To-morrow  I  leave  you,  and  by  long  penance 
may  hope  to  expiate  my  sin." 

"  And  I,"  she  exclaimed  -"  how  can  I  ae 
forgiven  ?" 

She  took  from  her  bosom  a  small  crrss  and 
placed  it  in  my  hand. 

«  What  is  this  ?"  I  asked. 

She  only  replied,  "  That  when  you  look  on 
it  you  may  pray  for  a.  penitent,"  and  turning 
entered  the  house.  That  cross  I  have  worn 
next  my  heart  till  now,  and  when  I  am  dead, 
will  you  take  it  and  keep  it  as  a  token  of  a 
heart's  mad  idolatry — a  heart  that  forgot  its 
God? 

But  I  will  hasten  on.  In  the  morning  Vic- 
toria was  gone.  Search  was  in  vain — she 
could  not  be  found.  I  left  that  part  of  Spain. 
I  inflicted  unheard  of  penance  on  my  body.  I 
would  have  gone  naked  and  barefoot  to  my 
grave  if  I  could  have  rid  myself  of  the  curse 
that  hung  upon  my  soul.  I  had  not  only 
sinned  myself,  but  I  had  brought  guilt  upon  a 
heart  that  before  was  holy.  Whole  nights 
have  I  lain  upon  the  ground  in  untold  agony, 
and  prayed  for  the  pardon  I  could  not  obtain. 
Yet  I  continued  to  wear  the  garb  and  perform 
the  offices  of  my  calling,  till  the  Father  Eugenio, 
who  was  known  for  his  virtue,  became  almost 
sainted  for  his  humility  and  severity  of  faith. 
Spain's  monarch  and  nobles  bent  their  knees 
for  his  blessing  and  in  his  hypocrisy  he  gave 
it.  The  proud  and  the  humble  both  rejoiced  in 
the  laying  on  of  his  hands  who  almost  feared 
to  pray  for  himself. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  high  festival  in  Rome.  Crowds  were 
gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  I  was 
among  them.  The  last  tones  of  the  organ 
died  away  in  the  vaulted  roof  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  still  I  knelt  at  the  altar.  A  strange  quiet 
had  come  over  my  spirit,  and  I  prayed  with 
hope  of  pardon.  I  heard  a  sigh,  and  raising 
my  head,  I  saw  that  all  had  'eft  the  church 
except  a  nun  who  knelt  by  my  side.  She 
seemed  in  deep  anguish  of  soul,  and  sighed 
often  and  deeply.  Thinking  to  speak  words  of 
comfort  to  her,  I  addressed  lier.  She  raised 
her  head — it  was  Victoria. 

She  had  fled  from  her  father's  house,  and 
taken  the  veil.  Yet,  strong  as  her  vows  were, 
there  was  a  love  she  could  not  subdue.     Better 


DEATH 


47 


if  she  had  stayed  at  her  father's  hearth  ;  bet- 
ter she  had  died  before  she  broke  from  her  first 
dream  of  love.  Now  it  was  too  late.  Fate 
had  thrown  us  together,  and  we  would  not  be 
separated.  I  led  her  from  the  church,  and 
tjjrowing  off  my  priestly  garb,  resolved  no 
more  to  desecrate  the  holy  character. 

We  were  pursued.  I  know  not  how  it  was 
discovered,  but  it  was  soon  known  throughout 
Rome  that  Father  Eugenio,  the  meek  and  vir- 
tuous, was  apostate,  and  had  drawn  away  a 
sister  from  the  convent  I  told  it  to  Victoria, 
and  that  we  must  fly.  I  was  standing  with  my 
arm  about  her — I  felt  her  shudder — she  raised 
her  eye  to  mine — she  groaned,  and  her  head 
fell  upon  my  shoulder.  I  held  her  a  moment, 
supposing  she  was  trying  to  subdue  her  feel- 
ings, but  seeing  that  she  did  not  move,  I  raised 
her  head.  She  was  dead.  The  struggle  had 
been  too  severe — her  heart  had  broken. 

I  heard  a  tumult  in  the  street,  and  my 
cowardly  and  guilty  heart  told  me  that  I  was 
the  cause.  I  laid  the  body  hastily  on  a  couch, 
and  escaped.  Once  more  I  passed  through 
Spain.  The  news  of  my  fall  had  not  reached 
there,  and  I  had  resumed  the  garb  of  a  priest. 
I  was  fondly  received  and  honored.  I  visited 
tlie  quiet  vale  where  I  had  first  seen  Victoria. 
I  feasted  my  heart  on  the  associations  of  for- 
mer days.  I  lingered  among  the  wild  scenery 
where  I  had  wandered  with  her ;  I  called  her 
name,  and  waited  for  an  answer,  but  it  came 
not.  I  was  lonely  and  desolate,  and  my  grief 
for  a  lost  idol  men  called  my  penitence. 

The  news,  however,  was  not  long  in  coming   I 
from  Rome,  and  again  I  fled — in  the  agony  of  ] 


my  soul  I  cared  not  whither.  I  recollect  little 
of  what  followed  for  many  weeks.  There  is 
an  indistinct  idea  of  tossing  in  a  ship  for  many 
days,  of  wanderings  from  place  to  place,  till  I 
found  myself  here.  Now  I  shall  die,  and  then  I 
shall  meet  my  Victoria — "  mia  cara  Victoria !" 
And  when  I  am  dead,  then  take  the  cross  from 
my  heart,  and  keep  it,  as  I  said,  in  remem- 
brance of  a  heart's  mad  idolatry — a  heart  that 
forgot  its  God. 

January  25lh. — Last  night  the  priest  Euge- 
nio died.  I  think  it  my  duty  always  to  urge 
upon  men,  in  view  of  approaching  death,  the 
important  consolations  of  religion,  and  recom- 
mend them  to  converse  with  a  minister  of  their 
own  faith.  How  dark  the  passage  to  the  grave 
must  be  to  those  who  go  down  through  it  in 
gloom  and  without  hope  beyond.  To  this  man, 
although  educated  in  the  doctrines  and  hopes 
of  his  church,  beyond  most  others,  religion 
had  been  always  a  form  and  external  observ- 
ance. As  there  was  no  priest  of  his  own  church 
in  the  place — and  had  there  been,  he  would 
not  have  seen  him — I  proposed  to  him  to  per- 
mit me  to  call  in  a  neighboring  Protestant 
clergyman.  He  consented  with  little  hesita- 
tion, and  I  believe  his  mind  was  thus  opened  to 
hopes  unknown  to  him  before.  How  glorious 
that  hope  which  can  throw  such  clear  light  all 
through  the  gloom  of  the  dark  valley. 

I  took  the  cross  from  its  resting-place,  and 
had  his  body  decently  buried.  He  will  be  for- 
gotten ;  biit  tliat  love  will  bum  again  in  some 
passionate  soul,  to  light  a  heart  it  cannot  sanc- 
tify. 


IDISA'IPIEr. 


A  MIGHTY  sceptred  monarch  sways 

The  realms  of  mortal  breath ; 
For  every  human  soul  obeys 

Tho  mandate  stern  of  Death. 
Death  never  smites  a  feeble  blow, 

Nor  waiteth  long  between; 
He  Cometh  from  the  depths  below 

This  harvest  ground  to  glean. 
He  hangs  a  fearful  gloominess 

About  the  wizard  sea; 
A  never-failing  loneliness, 

When  flowing  pleasantly. 
But  when  the  howhng  tempests  rise. 

Death  hasteth  to  the  fray. 


And  o'er  the  billows  swiftly  flie« 

In  rain's  dread  array. 
In  plaintive  sounding  melody 

The  breezes  whisper  low : — 
'The  agency  of  death  shall  be 

Through  time's  all-ceaseless  flow." 
Death  rideth  on  the  stormy  blast 

Amid  the  lightning's  play ; 
And  shouteth  when  the  war-clouds  fast 

Their  many  victims  slay. 
He  floateth  on  the  noiseless  breeze 

In  fragrant  summer  time  ; 
And  hideth  'mid  the  leafy  trees. 

Whence  music  sweet  doth  chimo. 


48 


THE  MOTHER  OF  PRESIDENT  EDWARDS. 


He  glitleth  where  deep  waters  flow, 

And  spreads  the  ripple  wide  ; 
And  stands  where  fetid  marshes  low 

Extend  their  sluggish  tide. 
He  saileth  on  the  sun's  bright  beam, 

Like  love's  resistless  glance  ; 
And  where  the  festive  torches  gleam. 

Whirls  in  the  giddy  dance. 
Death  mingleth  tempting  pleasure's  cup, 

And  crowns  all  earthly  joy ; 
He  hovers  where  the  song  goes  up, 

Commissioned  to  destroy. 


He  filleth  every  spot  of  earth. 

Like  all-peiTading  light; 
And  all  that  claimcth  mortal  birth 

Death  smites  in  giant  might. 
There's  horror  in  the  very  air 

When  o'er  the  dead  ffe  oend : 
There's  mingled  terror  everywhere 

If  Death  an  arrow  send. 
What  wonder  then  we  stand  aghast 

When  summoned  far  away  ? 
For  Death,  unwelcome  till  the  last, 

Fills  up  the  gi'ave  for  aye.  T. 


BY     MRS.     M.     E.     DOUBLEDAY. 


There  is  yet  extant  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Stod- 
dard, of  Northampton,  to  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Edwards,  of  East  Windsor,  in  which  she  con- 
gratulates her  upon  the  birth  of  a  son — that  son 
since  so  well  known  as  the  elder  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards. 

It  is  a  touching  epistle,  written  in  the  quaint 
style  and  orthography  of  a  century  and  a  half 
since ;  and,  while  the  mother  rejoices  in  the 
health  and  happiness  of  her  child,  she  commu- 
nicates intelligence  of  events  deeply  afflicting 
their  domestic  circle,  as  she  comprises  in  a  few 
simple  words  a  narrative  which  thrilled  our 
school-days  with  fear  and  terror. 

She  writes  to  her  daughter  that  the  Indians 
had  made  a  descent  upon  the  peaceful  settle- 
ment of  Dcnfield,  and  taken  her  half-sister,  Mrs. 
Williams,  (a  daughter  of  Mrs.  Stoddard,  by  a 
former  marriage,)  with  her  children,  into  cap- 
tivity. And  «he  tells  her,  too,  of  the  death  of  a 
brother,  in  a  prison, "  at  a  place  they  called  Brest, 
in  France"  whither  he  had  been  carried  after 
having  been  taken  a  prisoner  from  an  English 
vessel. 

The  heart  of  the  mother  had  been  wrung 
with  anguish,  but  a  sweet  spirit  of  piety 
and  submission  breathes  throughout  the  let- 
ter ;  while  mingled  with  these  more  important 
events,  are  the  trifling  details  of  domestic  life, 
and  the  kind  remembrances  of  maternal  love, 
as  she  sent  a  silver  porringer  to  the  baby,  and 
an  ounce  of  pins  to  the  motlier.  We  had  then 
no  manufactures,  and  such  gifts  were  not  to  be 
despised. 

The  more  important  events  to  which  that  let- 


ter referred  have  passed,  like  "a  tale  that  is  told ;" 
yet  there  are  many  in  our  land  who  may  feel  that 
they  have  something  like  a  personal  interest  in 
the  cradle  beside  which  that  letter  was  read — 
in  the  pale  mother  who  pc<ndered  the  sad  news 
as  she  rocked  her  sleeping  boy.  And  those 
who  duly  estimate  the  influence  of  the  mother 
upon  the  heart  and  mind,  by  the  formation  of 
one  aff'ecting  the  destinies  of  many,  will  feel 
no  small  interest  in  her  to  whom  was  commit- 
ted the  early  impressions  of  the  future  divine 
and  metaphysician. 

Mrs.  Edwards  inherited  much  of  the  talent 
of  her  father,  the  "  venerable  Stoddard,"  and 
New  England  sages  of  the  past  century  believ- 
ed the  intellectual  powers  of  the  celebrated  son 
transmitted,  as  an  inheritance,  from  the  mater- 
nal side. 

Few  have  been  placed  in  circumstances  more 
entirely  favorable  to  the  strengthening  and  de- 
veloping of  the  n-.ental  powers,  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  moral  an*cctions,  than  was  Jonathan 
Edwards  ;  and  he  has  carried  through  life,  and 
no  doubt  into  the  eternal  world,  the  in^uences 
of  a  pure  and  happy  home. 

lie  shared  the  care  and  aflfection  of  his  mo- 
ther, with  a  large  family  of  sisters  ;  and  if  they 
none  of  them  have  acquired  the  celebrity  of 
their  brother,  they  were  all  well  educated — in 
the  language  of  this  day,  we  may  say  highly 
accomplished — intelligent  women.  Their  father 
taught  them  I^atin  and  Greek,  so  that  the  elder 
sisters  were  the  first  instructors  of  their  brother, 
tiiough  probably  not  so  well  versed  in  the  cla.<- 
sics  as  President  Wolsey.     At  some  fashiima- 


ENGLISH  NOTABILITIES. 


49 


ble  school  of  these  days,  they  were  taught 
painting  and  embroidery,  while  the  mother 
communicated  things  of  far  higher  importance. 
She  trained  them  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and 
accustomed  them  to  habits  of  industry,  order 
and  economy.  And,  marrying  into  the  most 
respectable  families  of  their  native  land,  they 
carried  with  them  the  maxims,  the  habits,  and 
the  principles  in  which  she  educated  them,  and 
transmitted  them  to  descendants  who  have  been 
among  the  most  useful  and  respectable  of  the 
Sons  of  New  England. 

Many  cares  must  have  devolved  upon  the 
wife  of  a  country  minister  in  these  old-fashioned 
times,  in  which  the  congregation  looked  to  the 
minister's  family  as  the  example  to  the  flock ; 
and  while  they  showed  them  all  deference,  they 
expected  a  reciprocation  of  all  neighborly  kind- 
ness and  civility ;  and  when  the  minister's  doors 
were  to  be  kept  open,  and  the  table  spread  for 
all  wayfaring  brethren,  while  the  family  circle 
was  enlarged  by  students  who  were  prepared 
for  the  pulpit  in  the  study  of  the  husband.  But 
Mrs.  Edwards  was  well  able  to  meet,  and  well 
sustain  them  all.  She  was  the  mother  of  eleven 
children.  President  Edwards  was  her  only 
son.  She  dwelt  with  the  husband  of  her  youth 
more  than  half  a  century.  She  survived  him 
twelve  years. 

She  lived  until  she  attained  her  ninetietii 
year,  and  passed  the  years  of  her  widowhood 
in  the  house  to  which  she  had  been  brought  a 
bride — where  she  had  rocked  the  cradles  of  her 
children — where  the  marriage  benediction  had 
been  pronounced  over  her  daughters  before 


they  had  left  their  father's  house — where  she 
had  known  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  wife  and 
widow — had  welcomed  the  new-bom,  and  wept 
over  the  dead.  Her  husband's  success  in  the 
ministry  doubly  bereaved  one  whose  age,  posi- 
tion and  character  entitled  her  to  all  respect, 
and  the  people  of  her  husband's  charge  never 
forgot  to  show  her  all  reverence.  The  last 
years  of  her  life  she  read  much,  and  the  Bible 
and  those  theological  works  in  which  the  New 
England  puritans  so  much  delighted,  were  al- 
ways on  her  table :  and  the  venerable  matron 
seated  beside  it,  with  her  knitting,  often  stopped 
to  comment  on  passages  read  aloud  by  her 
daughter,  who  never  left  her,  to  the  ladies  of  the 
neighborhood,  who  were  fond  of  assembling  in 
her  parlor.  And  after  the  social  visit,  before  they 
separated,  the  daughter  would  read  a  chapter 
from  the  book  they  loved  so  well,  and  then  the 
aged  woman  commended  them  to  God  in  prayer. 
And  while  many  sought  counsel  and  comfort 
from  her,  it  was  believed  she  was  used  in  the 
conversion  of  many — who  shall  sliine  as  jewels 
in  the  crown  of  her  rejoicing. 

She  was  said  to  have  been  a  woman  of  fine 
personal  appearance,  dignified  and  polished 
manners,  educated  in  Boston,  the  seat  of  the 
provincial  court,  accustomed  to  all  tl*-}  etiquette 
and  ceremonial  of  the  colonial  aristocracy,  and 
teaching  and  observing  in  her  own  family  all 
the  proprieties  of  life  and  manners,  even  to 
that  minutiae  of  dress  and  appearance  which 
marked  the  manners  of  the  higher  classes  in 
the  day  in  which  distinctions  of  rank  were  not 
forgotten. 


ISH^ILirSIEI  Kr^lP^lItJLIIf  HlgS. 


BY   J.    T.    HEADLET. 


THE  REG.ALIA— BANK  OF  ENGLAND— THAMES  TUNNEL— OUT  OF  LONDON- 
ING  OF  THE  KLNG'S  ENGLISH— OXFORD— STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


-MURDER- 


The  visitor  can  never  say  enough  of  the 
old  Tower,  but  I  will  here  mention  only  one 
or  two  things.  In  Queen  Elizabeth's  Ar- 
mory are  stored  all  the  varieties  of  ancient 
weapons  of  warfare.  There  are  the  glaive, 
giusarne,  the  bill,  catchpole,  Lochaber  axe, 
two-handed  battle-axe,  haldberd,  crossbows. 


Sec.  Passing  over  the  rooms  and  instniments 
of  torture,  let  us  drop  for  a  moment  into  the 
Tower  House  containing  the  Regalia.  Here 
in  a  single  glass  case  is  gathered  all  the  crown 
jewels,  diadems,  sceptres,  6cc.,  of  rich  old  Eng- 
land. There  are  five  crowns  in  all,  and  five  royal 
sceptres,  heavy  with  gold  and  flashing  w^ith 


50 


ENGLISH  NOTABILITIES. 


diamonds.  The  Queen's  Diadem,  made  for 
the  wife  of  James  II.,  is  a  single  circlet  of  gold, 
yet  with  its  large,  richly  set  diamonds  and 
edging  of  pearls  it  cost  a  half  million  of  dol- 
lars. Victoria's  crown  has  a  large  cross  in 
front  entirely  frosted  with  brilliants,  and  in 
the  centre  a  single  sapphire,  two  inches  long 
and  blue  as  heaven — it  is  the  size  of  a  small 
egg.  There  leans  St.  Edward's  staff,  four 
feet  and  a  half  long  and  of  pure  gold,  and 
near  it  a  royal  sceptre,  three  feet  and  a  half 
in  length,  radiant  with  its  own  jewelled  light. 
There,  too,  are  the  Golden  Eagle,  which  holds 
the  anointing  oil  for  their  most  gracious  sove- 
reigns— the  anointing  spoon — the  great  golden 
salt-cellar  of  state  surrounded  with  twelve 
smaller  ones,  all  of  gold — the  baptismal  font, 
in  which  Victoria  and  the  present  Prince  of 
Wales  were  both  baptized,  silver-gilt, /our /eei 
high — and  the  heavy  sacramental  plate — two 
massive  tankards,  &c.,  &c.,  all  of  solid  gold. 

"  Only  sixpence  a  sight,"  and  lo !  the  eye 
feasts  on  this  profusion  of  diamonds,  and  jewels, 
and  precious  stones.  Millions  of  money  have 
been  wasted  on  these  baubles,  and  there 
they  idly  flash  year  after  year,  while  their 
worth  expended  on  famishing  Ireland  would 
give  bread  to  every  starving  family,  or  instruc- 
tion to  every  ignorant  and  depraved  child  of  the 
kingdom.  But  this  is  the  way  of  the  world — 
millions  for  show,  but  not  a  cent  for  wretched, 
starving  men. 

With  a  mere  glance  at  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land and  the  Thames  Tunnel,  and  we  will 
away  to  the  open  country — to  the  green  hedge- 
rows and  rolling  fields  of  merry  old  England. 
The  Bank  of  England  is  a  fine  building ;  "  it  is 
an  immense  and  very  extensive  stone  edifice, 
situated  a  short  distance  north-west  of  Corn 
Hill.  The  principal  entrance  is  from  Thread- 
needle  street.  It  is  said  this  building  covers 
five  acres  of  ground.  Business  hours  from 
nine  o'clock  until  five  p.  m.  There  are  no 
windows  opening  on  the  street ;  light  is  ad- 
mitted through  open  courts ;  no  mob  could 
take  the  bank,  therefore,  without  cannon  to 
batter  the  immense  walls.  There  are  nine 
hundred  clerks  employed  in  the  bank,  and  not 
one  foreigner  among  the  whole.  Should  a 
cicik  be  too  old  for  service,  he  is  discharged 
on  lialf-|Kiy  for  life.  The  clock  in  the  centre 
of  the  bank  has  fifty  dials  attached  to  it ;  each 
of  the  rooms  has  a  dial,  in  order  that  all  in  the 
bank  should  know  the  true  time.  Largo  cis- 
tema  are  sunk  in  the  courts,  and  engines  in 


perfect  order,  always  in  readiness  in  case  of 
fire.  The  bank  was  incorporated  in  1694. 
Capital  £18,000,000  sterling,  or  $90,000,000." 

The  Tunnel  is  one  of  the  chief  wonders  of 
London.  This  subterranean  passage  is  thirty 
feet  beneath  the  bed  of  the  Thames  river  and 
twenty-two  feet  high.  It  is  thirteen  hundred 
feet  long  and  thirty-eight  wide,  and  lighted 
with  gas.  One  has  strange  emotions  in  stand- 
ing under  these  dark,  damp  arches.  Over  his 
head  is  rushing  a  deep  river,  and  vessels  are 
floating,  and  steamboats  are  ploughing  the 
water,  and  he  cannot  but  think  of  the  effect  a 
small  leak  would  produce,  and  what  his  chance 
would  be  in  a  general  break  down  of  the 
arches  above. 

The  Tunnel  is  composed  of  two  arches  with 
a  row  of  immense  columns  in  the  centre.  It  is 
designed  for  carriages,  but  is  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently completed  to  receive  them.  You  de- 
scend by  a  winding  staircase,  and  passing 
under  the  river  emerge  into  daylight  by  a 
similar  staircase  on  the  farther  side.  Little 
hand  printing-presses,  fruit  and  candy  tables, 
and  nick-nacks  of  various  kinds,  are  strung 
through  this  passage. 

As  I  was  sauntering  along  suddenly  I  heard 
a  low  humming  sound  which  startled  me  pro- 
digiously. The  first  thought  was  that  the 
masonry  above  had  given  way,  and  that  ring- 
ing was  the  steady  pressure  of  the  down-rush- 
ing waters.  The  bare  possibility  of  being 
buried  up  there  was  too  horrible  to  entertain 
for  a  moment.  I  looked  anxiously  around,  but 
finding  no  one,  not  even  those  who  lived  there, 
the  least  alarmed,  I  concluded  it  was  all  right, 
and  walked  on.  But  that  strange  humming- 
ringing  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  com- 
pletely bewildered  me.  It  had  no  rising  swell 
or  sinking  cadence,  but  monotonous,  deep,  and 
constant,  kept  rising  every  moment  louder  and 
clearer.  Hastening  forward  I  came  to  the 
farther  entrance  of  the  Tunnel,  and  there  sat  a 
man  and  boy,  one  with  a  violin  and  the  other 
with  a  harp — the  innocent  authors  of  all  the 
strange,  indescribable  sounds  that  had  so  con- 
fused me.  The  endless  reverberations  amid 
those  long  arches  so  completely  mingled  them 
together — one  overtaking  and  blending  in  with 
another,  and  the  whole  bounding  back  in  a 
mass  to  be  again  split  asunder,  and  tossed 
about,  created  such  a  jargon  as  I  never  before 
listened  to.  The  sounds  could  not  escape,  and 
in  their  struggles  to  do  so— hitting  along  the 
roof  and  sides  of  the  Tunnel — they  at  length 


ENGLISH  NOTABILITIES. 


51 


lost  all  distinctness  of  utterance,  and  became 
tangled  up  in  the  most  astonishing  manner. 

At  length  I  bade  smoky  London  adieu,  and 
driving  early  one  morning  to  a  stage-office, 
booked  myself  for  Oxford.  As  I  was  waiting 
for  the  stage  to  start,  I  stepped  into  a  shop 
near  by  for  some  crackers,  thinking  perhaps 
my  early  breakfast  would  leave  me  with  some- 
thing of  an  appetite  before  it  was  time  to  dine. 
But  to  my  surprise  the  keeper  told  me  he  had 
no  "  crackers,"  and  looked  as  thougii  he  re- 
garded me  a  lunatic  or  fresh  from  some  remote 
region.  I  returned  his  look  of  surprise,  for 
there  before  me  were  bushels  of  crackers.  All 
at  once  I  remembered  that  cracker  was  an 
Americanism,  and  that  Englishmen  call  eveiy 
thing  of  the  kind  biscuit.  This  put  matters 
right. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  trundling  through 
the  long  streets  of  London,  and  at  length  pass- 
ing from  the  dirty  suburbs,  found  ourselves 
in  the  open  country.  For  a  while  it  was 
pleasant,  but  we  soon  came  to  a  barren,  deso- 
late tract,  which  quite  damped  the  hopes  with 
which  we  had  set  out. 

Hal.  this  being  passed,  we  entered  on  the 
beautiful  farming  districts  of  England.  The 
roads  were  perfect,  and  the  long  green  hedge- 
rows gently  rolling  over  the  slopes ;  the  masses 
of  dark  foliage  sprinkled  here  and  there  through 
the  fields,  and  the  fine  bracing  air,  combined  to 
lift  our  spirits  up  to  the  enjoying  point.  I  had 
taken  a  seat  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  hence 
could  overlook  the  whole  country.  Marlow, 
which  we  passed,  is  a  pretty  place,  and  the  seats 
of  English  gentlemen  along  the  road  are  pic- 
turesque and  beautiful. 

As  we  were  descending  a  gentle  inclination 
to  Henly-on-the-Thames,  the  valley  that  opened 
on  our  view  was  lovely  beyond  description. 
But  just  here  an  accident  overtook  us ;  one  of 
our  wheels  broke,  and  we  were  compelled  to 
foot  it  into  town.  The  driver  immediately  sent 
one  of  those  hangers-on  around  taverns  and 
stables  to  a  coachmaker,  to  see  if  he  could 
obtain  a  coach  or  extra  wheel.  As  he  came 
slouching  back,  Lwas  struck  with  his  reply. 
English  people  are  always  ridiculing  the  lan- 
guage spoken  in  this  country,  but  that  loafer 
beat  a  down-easter  out  and  out.  He  had  been 
unsuccessful,  and  as  he  came  up  he  drawled  out, 
"Ae  hainU  got  nary  coach  nor  nary  wheel!" 
Now,  an  ignorant  Yankee  might  have  said, 
•'  he  hain't  got  nary  coach  nor  wheel,"  but  he 
never  would  have  doubled  the  "  nary''' — this 


was  wholly  English.  I  had  often  noticed  a 
similar  dreadful  use  of  the  English  language 
among  the  cabmen  of  London  ;  they  are  alto- 
gether worse  than  our  cabmen  at  home. 

We,  however,  succeeded  in  getting  under 
way  at  last,  and  reached  Oxford  just  as  the 
clouds  began  to  pour  their  gathered  treasures 
down. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  old  Oxford. 
It  is  a  venerable  place,  and  the  pile  of  buildings 
which  compose  the  University  one  of  the  most 
imposing  I  have  ever  seen.  Old  and  time- 
worn,  with  their  grave  architecture  and  ancient 
look,  they  present  a  striking  appearance  amid 
the  green  sward  that  surrounds  them.  Of  the 
Bodleian  and  Radclilfe  libraries  I  shall  say 
nothing.  In  conversing  with  one  of  the  tutors 
of  the  University,  I  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
Pusey  was  regarded  there  rather  as  an  honest 
old  granny  than  an  able  and  profound  man. 

The  morning  I  left  Oxford  for  Stratford-on- 
the-Avon  was  as  beautiful  a  one  as  ever  smiled 
over  New  England.  The  fragmentary  clouds 
went  trooping  over  the  sky,  the  fresh,  cool  wind 
swept  cheerfully  by,  and  the  newly-washed 
meadows  and  fields  looked  as  if  just  preparing 
themselves  for  a  holiday.  Again  I  took  my 
seat  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  with  two  or  three 
others,  and  started  away.  We  soon  picked  up 
an  additional  companion — a  pretty  young  wo- 
man— who  also  climbed  to  the  roof  of  the 
coach.  The  inside  was  full,  and  you  must 
know  that  an  Englishman  never  gives  up  his 
seat  to  a  lady.  He  takes  the  place  he  has  paid 
for,  and  expects  all  others,  of  whatever  sex, 
to  do  the  same.  If  it  rains,  he  says  it  is  un- 
fortunate, but  supposes  that  the  lady  knew  the 
risk  when  she  took  her  seat,  and  expects  her 
to  bear  her  misfortune  like  a  philosopher. 

This  lady,  I  should  think  from  her  general 
appearance  and  conversation,  was  a  governess. 
She  had  evidently  travelled  a  good  deal,  and 
was  very  talkative  and  somewhat  inquisitive. 
When  she  discovered  I  was  an  American,  she 
very  gravely  remarked  that  she  mistrusted  it 
before  from  my  complexion.  Now  it  must  be 
remembered  that  I  have  naturally  the  tinge  of 
a  man  belonging  to  a  southern  clime,  which 
had  been  considerably  deepened  by  my  recent 
exposures  in  the  open  air  in  Italy  and  along 
the  Rhine.  Supposing  that  all  American* 
were  tawny  from  their  close  relationship  to 
the  aborigines  of  our  country,  she  attributed 
my  swarthiness  to  the  Indian  blood  in  my 
veins.      I  confessed   myself   sufficiently  sur- 


o2 


EVENING. 


prised  at  her  penetration,  and  humored  her  in- 
quisitiveness.  She  left  us  at  Stratford,  bidding 
my  friend  and  myself  good-bye  with  a  dignified 
shake  of  the  hand.  We  of  course  regarded  this 
great  condescension  on  her  part  to  two  Indians 
with  proper  respect,  attributing  it  to  the  com- 
parative fluency  witli  which  we  spoke  Eng- 
lish. She  evidently  thought  us  savages  of 
more  than  ordinary  education. 

After  dinner,  I  strolled  out  to  the  house  of 
Shakspcare,  a  low,  niiserdble  affair  at  the  best, 
and  hardly  large  enougli  for  three  persons. 
Yet  here  the  great  dramatist  was  born.  After 
going  through  it,  I  went  to  the  church  where 
his  bones  repose,  and  read,  with  strange  feelings, 
the  odd  inscription  he  directed  to  be  placed 
over  his  tomb. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  I  went  out  and 
sat  down  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon  beside  the 
church,  and  gazed  long  on  the  rippling  waters 
and  green  slopes  of  the  neighboring  hills  and 
greener  hedges.  Cattle  were  lazily  browsing 
in  the  fields ;  the  ancient  trees  beside  the 
church  bent  and  sighed  as  the  fresh  breeze 
swept  by,  and  all  was  tranquillity  and  beauty. 
I  had  never  seen  so  pure  a  sky  in  England. 


The  air  was  clear  and  bracing,  and  although 
it  was  the  middle  of  August,  it  seemed  like  a 
bright  June  day  at  home. 

How  many  fancies  a  man  will  sometimes 
weave,  and  yet  scarce  know  why.  A  single 
chord  of  memory  is  perhaps  touched,  or  some 
slight  association  will  arise,  followed  by  a 
hundred  others,  as  one  bird,  starting  from  the 
brake,  will  arouse  a  whole  flock,  and  away  they 
go  swarming  together.  It  was  thus  as  I  sat  on 
the  banks  of  the  Avon,  soothed  by  the  ripple  of 
its  waters.  Along  this  stream  Shakspeare  had 
wandered  in  his  boyhood,  and  cast  his  dark 
eye  over  this  same  landscape.  What  gorgeous 
dreams  here  wrapped  his  youthful  imagination, 
and  strange,  wild  vagaries  crossed  his  mind. 
Old  England  then  was  merry,  and  plenty 
reigned  in  her  halls,  and  good  cheer  was  every 
where  to  be  found.  But  now  want  and  poverty 
cover  the  land.  Discontent  is  written  on  half 
the  faces  you  meet,  and  the  murmurs  of  a 
coming  storm  are  heard  over  the  distant  hea- 
vens. 

Farewell,  sweet  Avon  !  your  bright  waters, 
bordered  with  green  fields,  and  sparkling  in 
light,  are  like  a  pleasant  dream. 


l¥IgMI[M(i 


BY    D.     W,     BARTLETT. 


Sweet  evening  in  her  robes  of  sable  hue 
Is  here,  and  is  bestowing  her  soft  dew 
Upon  the  earth,  and  shutting  up  the  flowers 
With  her  moist  fingers  for  the  sleeping  hours. 
My  heart  is  sad  to-night,  and  on  my  brain 
Care  heavily  doth  press,  and  bitter  pain. 
And  I  am  lonely,  for  no  friend  is  here ; 
But  most  of  all  I  miss  mij  mother  dear. 
My  mother ! — ah  !  mcthinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  those  soft,  loving  eyes  of  hers,  and  brow 
So  kind  !     Oh  !  sad  am  I,  because  I  know 
That  I  have  caused  dark,  bitter  tears  to  flow 
From  out  those  blessed  eyes  of  hers — and  now 
I  clasp  her  hand  and  bend  before  her  low — 
Methinks  I  feel  her  tears  upon  my  cheek, 
And  hear  her  breathe  a  prayer  for  me  her  weak 
And  erring  boy  !     Dear  mother !  let  me  lay 
My  head  upon  thy  heart — would  God  for  aye 


1  i  :••;•.  ^       y' 


4:     # 


•* 


THREE    DAYS     IN     TilE     APPENINES. 


53 


It  might  remain  ;  for  there  I  could  not  sin, 

Where  such  pure,  heav'n-like  virtue  reigns  within  ! 

But  thou  art  far  from  me,  and  oh  !  perhaps 

1  ne'er  again  shall  see  thy  face — a  lapse 

Of  time  at  least  must  slowly  pass,  ere  I 

Can  let  my  head  upon  thy  bosom  lie ; 

But  if  thy  cheek  I  never  kiss  again — 

If  never  more  thy  tears  shall  wash  the  stain 

Of  sin  from  off  my  heart,  I'll  not  despair, 

For  God,  I  know,  will  grant  my  mother's  prayer ; 

And  granting  it,  "  O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?" 

For  then  to  me  eternal  joy  thou'lt  bring  ! 


BY  Gr.  F.  SEGCHI  DE  OASALI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  morning  had  just  dawned  ;  the  golden 
sun  of  Italy  gleamed  upon  the  crest  of  the 
Appenines.  The  valleys  resounded  with  the 
lowing  of  herds  and  the  matin-songs  of  birds ; 
gaily-dressed  peasants  went  in  companies  to 
their  labor,  headed  by  some  musician,  who 
echoed  back  the  sweet  songs  of  the  beautiful 
peasant  girls,  that,  crowned  with  flowers,  were 
about  commencing  the  vintage.  All  around  us 
was  magnificent ;  all  spoke  to  the  mind  as  well 
as  to  the  heart.  Emerald  valleys ;  meadows, 
gemmed  with  flowers  of  every  hue  ;  hills,  pic- 
turesque and  varied  with  cottages  and  villas ; 
above  all,  a  heaven  pure  and  serene  promised 
one  of  the  most  glorious  days  of  autumn. 

Oh,  then  I  felt  awakened  to  a  new  life  !  I 
beheld  these  beauties  of  nature  with  a  lively 
pleasure,  a  peculiar  admiration.  Every  thing 
around  us  recalled  constantly  to  mind  the  days 
and  scenes  of  my  childhood,  the  hopes,  the  fer- 
vent desires  of  revisiting  them,  when  thou- 
sands of  miles  lay  between  us.  How  often 
amid  the  deserts  of  Egypt,  upon  the  burning 
shores  of  the  Nile,  beside  the  wasted  fountains 
of  Palestine,  in  the  shadow  of  Atlas,  and 
even  upon  the  barbarous  and  inhospitable  soil 
of  Asia,  I  thought  of  these  valleys  and  moun- 
tains, my  beloved  and  beautiful  Italy. 

After  four  years  of  vicissitudes  and  wander- 


ings, of  suflferingB  and  perils,  it  was  granted 
me  to  behold  once  more  my  country  and  my 
friends.  What  do  I  say  ? — my  friends  !  My 
mother  was  no  more !  The  companion  of  my 
childhood  and  of  my  later  studies,  Ludovico, 
resumed  with  me  our  excursions  among  the 
mountains,  the  chase  of  the  fox,  and  our  pil- 
grimages to  the  shrines  of  the  Virgin  and  the 
saints.  These  solemnities,  though  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  19th  century,  preserve  more  of  the 
character  of  heathen  worship  than  of  Christi- 
anity. 

Every  village  has  its  particular  virgin,  its 
patron  saint ;  and  at  each  anniversary  of  these 
divinities  are  renewed  the  rural  fetes,  the  pil- 
grimages, and  the  re-union  of  thousands  who 
prefer  to  revere  their  gods  and  goddesses  as 
bacchanals,  rather  than  to  render  to  the  true 
God  a  simple  worship,  an  adoration  purely  spi- 
ritual. 

A  fete  was  announced  to  be  given  by  the 
village  of  Montalto.  The  concourse  of  pil- 
grims, of  devotees  and  spectators,  wended 
their  way  to  the  shrine  of  San  Gottardo,  and 
the  day  of  our  excursion  was  the  one  previous 
to  the  anniversary  of  this  saint. 

Already  the  day  was  considerably  advanced  ; 
the  sun  flung  his  glistening  rays  over  the 
earth ;  a  slight  breeze  blew  gently  from  the 
north,  and  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  per- 


64 


THREE     DAYS    IN    THE     APPENINES. 


fume  of  flowers.  Never,  in  all  my  wanderings, 
had  I  witnessed  a  scene  so  enchanting  as  that 
of  the  valley  of  the  Trebbia  and  the  villages 
upon  its  banks.  What  a  glorious  day  was 
this  !  Nature  herself  seemed  endowed  with  a 
new  life,  and  autumn  was  confounded  with 
the  awakening  of  spring. 

Far  in  the  distance  was  heard  tlie  noise  of 
the  cataract  as  it  plunged  into  the  depths  of 
the  valley.  The  flocks,  led  by  young  and 
beautiful  shepherdesses,  sought  their  pastures  ; 
multitudes  of  women  were  already  commencing 
the  vintage ;  others  reaped  upon  the  brows  of 
the  rocks,  while  their  husbands  drove  home- 
ward tlie  loaded  carts,  or  filled  the  cellars  with 
the  fruit  consecrated  to  Bacchus.  All  this 
labor  was  carried  on  amid  song  and  music,  amid 
joy  and  love.  Happy  friends  and  dwellers  in 
this  valley !  how  sweet  and  noble  the  life  to 
which  you  are  dedicated,  constantly  surrounded 
by  all  that  nature  can  offer  of  the  beautiful  or 
the  useful,  with  one  common  accord,  and  with 
brotherly  love,  you  labor  in  the  midst  of  song 
and  music. 

Ah !  yes,  you  are  right — music  instructs, 
awakens,  expands,  communicates,  while  the 
harmony  of  its  tones  rules  the  will  and  the 
heart.  Music  is  faith,  it  is  friendship,  it  is 
the  association  of  all  excellence.  Labor  on, 
then,  speaking  still  the  language  of  angels,  that 
language  that  binds  us  to  heaven  and  to  earth ! 

CHAPTER   11. 

The  clock  of  the  church  of  St.  Egidio  struck 
the  hour  of  noon,  just  as  we  arrived  at  the 
"  Rocca  di  Casale."  This  castle,  fantastic  in  its 
architecture,  built  upon  the  summit  of  a  moun- 
tain, still  preserves  the  warlike  aspect  of  the 
middle  ages.  This  fief  had  borne  a  conspic- 
uous part  in  the  intestinal  wars  between 
the  Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines.  These  two 
parties,  who  disputed  the  victory  for  centuries, 
shedding  seas  of  the  blood  of  their  own  people, 
of  their  own  nation,  had  been,  by  turns  masters 
of  the  "  Rocca  di  Casale."  How  much  blood 
had  been  spilled !  how  many  battles  fought ! 
how  many  skeletons  were  mouldering  beneath 
those  walls ! 

On  entering  the  Rocca,  we  passed  through  a 
gate  that  opened  by  a  drawbridge.  We  de- 
scended first  by  a  narrow  and  obscure  passage, 
and  afterwards  mounted  to  the  tower  by  a 
winding  staircase,  in  which,  at  short  distances, 
were  little  cells,  deep  and  damp,  closed  by  iron 


doors  bolted  and  barred.  In  the  great  halls, 
now  desolate  and  uninhabited,  were  still  seen 
armorial  bearings  and  paintings,  representing 
battles  and  victories — some,  a  father  strangling 
his  child  because  he  had  discovered  him  to 
belong  to  the  opposite  faction  ;  and  others,  sons 
assassinating  their  fathers,  that  they  might  ob- 
tain a  triumph  for  their  party  even  at  the  cost  of 
a  parent's  life  !  How  many  brave  men  perished 
in  that  fortress  !  how  many  heroes  languished 
there  for  weary  years  to  gratify  the  hatred  of 
their  enemies ! 

Tiie  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  regarded 
the  Rocca  di  Casale  as  a  mysterious  place. 
Never  had  one  of  them  dared  to  approach  it 
after  nightfall,  lest  they  should  meet  the  wan- 
dering spirit  of  some  one  of  those  unhappy 
warriors,  who  for  centuries  had  reposed  there 
in  silence  and  death.  The  warder  even,  the 
sole  inhabitant  of  the  chateau,  was  looked  upon 
as  a  gipsy,  as  one  who  held  intercourse  with 
these  nocturnal  shades,  the  spirits  who  were 
now  the  possessors  of  the  "  Rocca." 

Giacomo,  such  was  the  name  of  the  worthy 
warder,  after  having  played  for  us  the  part  of 
cicerone,  regaled  us  with  a  dinner  purely 
Pythagorean,  and  which  was  rendered  still 
more  agreeable  by  his  own  good  company, 
while  he  related  to  us  marvellous  tales  of  the 
ghosts  of  the  castle.  At  once  devout  and  ex- 
ceedingly superstitious,  he  was  fully  persuaded 
that  night  after  night  he  heard  the  cries  of  the 
suffering — the  groans  of  the  dying — and  the 
noise  of  men  prepared  for  battle,  who,  as  they 
marched  out,  made  the  midnight  air  echo  with 
the  clang  of  their  heavy  and  ancient  armor. 
He  insisted  that  he  had  seen,  walking  back  and 
forth  in  the  vast  citadel,  men  of  gigantic  forms 
in  white  garments,  others  clad  in  black,  bearing 
in  their  hands  lighted  torches  and  trailing  after 
them  long  chains.  During  the  night  he  had 
been  awakened  by  the  cry  of  strange  voices 
demanding  succor,  prayers  and  masses :  in  fact, 
he  recited  for  our  benefit  a  thousand  tales  of 
this  sort — all  more  or  less  attractive — tales 
well  worthy  of  recital  by  the  warm  fireside  of 
a  winter  evening,  with  the  accompaniment  of 
the  wine-cup  to  drink  to  the  restless  spirits  of 
Uio  "  Rocca." 

CHAPTER   III. 

Little  by  little  the  sun  was  descending  behind 
the  Appcnines.  Some  stars  had  already  ap- 
peared in  the  blue  heavens,  and  from  afar  were 
perceived  the  fires  that  had  been  lighted  for  the 


THREE    DAYS    IN    THE    APPENINES. 


55 


glory  of  San  Gottardo.  The  death  toll  sounded 
from  Montalto,  and  the  peasants,  with  uncov- 
ered heads,  turned  towards  their  church,  as  the 
Mussulman  turns  towards  his  Mecca,  and 
prayed  for  the  departed. 

**Pace  ai  poveri  morti.'"  whispered  a  young 
girl  in  the  garb  of  a  mourner.  "  I  pray  for  my 
mother,"  said  she,  turning  towards  us,  when 
surprised  at  our  indifference  she  asked  if  we 
had  no  dead.  "  Is  it  not  sweet,  O  Signori,  and 
consoling  to  the  heart,"  said  she  with  deep  emo- 
tion, "  to  render  a  tribute,  a  homage  to  those 
who  have  loved  us  so  well  and  have  suffered 
for  us  ?  Is  it  not  at  the  tomb  of  those  who 
have  been  dear  to  us  that  we  feel  renewed 
within  us  our  faith,  our  trust,  our  hope  in  the 
one  God,  alone  and  perfect  ?" 

Ludovico,  who  had  determined  upon  playing 
the  part  of  a  theologian,  replied,  that,  acccording 
to  the  Scripture,  there  was  but  one  place  of 
glory,  and  another  of  eternal  expiation ;  that 
purgatory  was  but  an  invention  of  the  Church, 
and  fruitful  means  of  procuring  money  with 
which  to  maintain  superstition,  ignorance,  and 
her  high-handed  domination  over  the  poor  and 
credulous.  "  I  know,"  replied  the  girl,  "  that 
our  priests  make  it  generally  a  matter  of  mer- 
chandise, thus  profaning  our  religion,  and  that 
they  redeem  souls  by  their  prayers  and  their 
doctrines,  always  with  a  view  to  interest !  But 
supposing,  as  you  say,  Signore,  that  our  depart- 
ed ones  do  not  need  our  prayers,  is  it  not  con- 
soling to  repeat  upon  a  mother's  grave  the 
prayers  she  taught  us  when  we  were  children  ? 
Such  prayers,  it  seems  to  me,  animate  us ;  they 
transport  our  souls  to  the  celestial  dwellings  of 
the  happy.  "  Beati  mortui  qui  in  Domino  mo- 
n'uJi/Hr,"  added  she,  saluting  us — and  follow- 
ing with  our  eyes  the  path  of  the  pretty  orphan 
we  saw  her  seat  herself  beside  a  grave. 

At  some  distance  from  us  was  a  cemetery, 
that  an  inattentive  observer  would  have  scarcely 
distinguished,  so  little  had  it  been  adorned  by 
the  hand  of  man.  Its  bounds  were  marked 
only  by  hedges,  which  surrounded  it  as  with  a 
garland  of  flowers  and  of  verdure.  The  graves 
were  only  perceptible  by  a  slight  elevation  of 
the  earth,  or  by  the  crosses  which  were  plant- 
ed here  and  there  among  them.  The  weeping 
willow  and  the  poplar  took  from  this  little  en- 
closure its  air  of  nakedness,  and  to  this  spot  of 
respect  and  silence,  in  this  last  resting-place  of 
man,  the  devoted  and  pious  daughter  had  gone 
alone,  to  seat  herself  beside  her  mother's  tomb, 
to  pray  over  it  and  water  it  with  her  tears! 


How  sublime,  and  yet  how  admirable  is  reli- 
gion !  A  heart  tender  and  devoted  to  her  who 
had  carried  her  in  her  bosom,  who  had  first  spo- 
ken to  her  of  a  God,  seeks  no  other  consolation 
than  a  prayer,  believes  in  no  happiness,  no  joy 
unconnected  with  heaven !  Humble  and  faith- 
ful, not  from  a  blind  belief,  but  from  a  convic- 
tion pure  and  enlightened,  she  trusts  in  and 
adores  the  Creator  of  all  things ;  and  in  grief, 
her  faith  consoles,  encourages  her  to  bear  suf- 
fering and  wait  for  those  days  that  are  better 
and  eternal !  O  Atheist !  canst  thou  again 
openly  deny  thy  God  after  having  been  witness 
of  such  a  scene — beneath  a  starry  sky,  beside 
the  tomb  of  the  parent  who  is  no  more,  and  in 
defiance  of  every  thing  around  thee  that  bears 
testimony  to  the  existence  of  a  God  supreme, 
great  and  all-powerful  ?  Nature,  thy  sole  Deity, 
speaks  she  not  to  thee  ?  says  she  not.  Look 
upon  my  beauty,  my  composition,  my  fruits — 
thyself,  a  part  of  me  ?  all  is  the  work  of  Him 
whom  thou  deniest .' 

CHAPTER   IV. 

Although  fatigued  by  our  long  journey,  we 
were  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  we 
had  passed  through  and  of  our  twilight  ramble ; 
if  the  day  had  appeared  to  us  magnificent,  the 
night  at  least  equalled  it.  The  moon  had 
already  risen  ;  its  rays,  at  first  pale,  grow  more 
brilliant  as  the  twilight  disappeared.  This  sis- 
ter of  the  sun,  surrounded  by  millions  of  glitter- 
ing stars,  shone  with  unusual  brightness,  while 
their  united  splendor  seemed  to  vie  with  the 
fervor  of  day.  Oh  !  a  beautiful  star-light  night ! 
One  of  those  matchless  nights  of  Italy ;  is  it 
not  an  image  of  whatever  is  most  beautiful  and 
happy  under  heaven  ?  the  tranquillity  of  a  vir- 
tuous man,  who,  in  his  ripe  age,  reposes  beneatli 
his  paternal  roof,  where  he  enjoys,  in  happy 
obscurity,  the  delights  of  domestic  life  ?  the 
union  and  reciprocal  affection  of  a  youthful  pair 
but  just  united  ?  the  unlimited  confidence  of  two 
real  friends  dwelling  in  solitude  ? 

"  Ah !  la  pure  amitie,  tendre,  sans  jalousie ; 
Des  hommes  qu'  elle  enchaine,  elle  channe  la  vie." 

In  a  word,  a  beautiful  night  is  an  image  of  per- 
fect felicity — of  a  conscience  pure  and  without 
remorse. 

From  all  sides  were  seen  approaching  the 
sanctuarj',  dealers  in  liquors,  charlatans  and 
dentists,  each  prepared  to  plant  their  booths, 
shops  or  tents.  The  peasants  of  the  vicinity 
went  in  crowds  bearing  to  the  holy  protector 


56 


THREE    DAYS    IN    THE    APPENINES. 


such  offerings  as  poultry,  lambs,  flax  or  fruits, 
which  they  deposited  at  the  gate  of  the  convent. 
Numbers  of  sick,  deformed  and  infirm,  were 
kneeling  in  front  of  the  church ;  two  monks  in 
the  dress  of  their  order  stood  at  the  door,  one 
holding  a  plate  to  receive  the  alms  of  the  faith- 
ful, the  other  with  holy  water  and  white  ribbons 
which  he  asserted  to  be  the  exact  measurement 
of  the  height  of  the  saint.  According  to  this  holy 
father,  these  ribbons  were  possessed  of  especial 
virtue ;  they  healed  the  sick,  even  of  the  most 
incurable  maladies,  if  they  were  but  placed  upon 
the  part  affected.  These  two  reverend  person- 
ages, by  giving  the  holy  water  gratuitously  and 
the  ribbons  at  five  sous  each,  were  charged  at 
the  same  time  to  see  that  no  male  should  enter 
the  church.  Sick  or  barren  women,  who  de- 
sired to  be  cured  of  their  infirmity,  passed  the 
night  in  the  church  of  San  Gottardo,  praying, 
singing,  &c.,&c.,  although  surrounded  by  mys- 
tery ;  but  the  men  were  excluded.  Husbands 
were  obliged  to  confide  their  wives  to  the 
care  of  the  monks  and  content  themselves  until 
the  morning  under  the  porch  of  the  chapel. 
But  murmurs  arose  amid  this  multitude ;  some, 
who  wished  to  be  considered  philosophers,  said 
that  they  would  rather  have  trusted  their 
women  to  the  soldiery  than  to  men  in  gowns. 
The  husbands  of  those  within  tried  to  quiet 
these  malcontents,  by  repeating  the  rigorous 
rules  of  the  order,  the  clause  and  interdiction 
of  these  women  into  the  convent,  and  the  vows 
of  chastity  by  which  the  monks  were  bound ; 
still  the  younger  men  insisted  that  the  friars 
were  not  to  be  trusted  as  far  as  the  soldiery  ! 

It  was  already  late,  and  it  became  necessary 
that  we  should  seek  an  asylum,  for,  having  no 
wives  within  the  church,  we  could  well  dispense 
with  passing  the  night  in  the  open  air.  As 
sons  of  those  general  benefactors,  the  monks, 
we  were  entitled,  at  least,  to  their  hospitality — 
and  with  this  conviction,  rang  the  gate-bell  of 
the  convent.  The  porter,  after  having  kept  us 
waiting  a  long  time,  at  length  made  his  appear- 
ance with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  like  a  spirit 
from  the  shades  of  night.  This  venerable  old 
man,  bent  with  the  weight  of  years  and  fatigues, 
was  slowly  languishing  out  the  remainder  of 
his  existence,  ready  to  depart  from  the  scenes 
of  this  world. 

Like  a  commissioner  of  the  police,  before 
introducing  us  into  the  convent,  he  demanded 
our  naniei),  our  passports,  whence  we  came,  and 
what  was  our  object  ?  At  length  satisfied  as 
to  all  these  particulars,  ho    received  us  as 


friends.  Wishing  to  spare  him  all  the  trouble 
we  could  on  our  account,  we  proposed  retiring. 
Signori,  said  he  with  a  sigh,  I  am  accustomed 
to  keeping  vigils  (and  those  of  the  most  severe 
kind)  for  many  years  !  I  am  il  cavallo  magro 
of  the  convent,  and  having  here  the  latest  and 
most  painful  duties  to  perform,  I  am  obliged  at 
all  times  to  submit  to  the  caprices  of  the 
monks.  Fraternal  love  is  unknown  here,  ex- 
cept in  name,  and  to  procure  for  us  the  good 
opinion  of  the  world !  Neither  my  zeal,  my 
age,  already  advanced,  nor  my  birth  (and  here 
he  paused,  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven 
we  saw  the  big  tears  coursing  down  his  wan 
cheeks)  have  been  able  to  soften,  in  any  de- 
gree, their  obdurate  hearts, 

CHAPTER   V. 

Father  Placido  (such  was  the  name  of  the 
porter)  had  been  induced  to  join  one  of  the 
monastic  orders  by  the  intrigues  of  a  Jesuit, 
who  hoped,  by  thus  disposing  of  him,  to  be 
able  to  secure  to  himself  the  inheritance  of  his 
family  estates.  The  porter,  then  a  young  man, 
had  loved  the  daughter  of  a  patrician  of  the 
Venetian  republic,  but  from  difference  of  rank 
or  fortune  his  suit  had  proved  unsuccessful ; 
Vinnamorata  was  removed  from  Venice,  and  ho 
sent  to  a  convent  in  Romagna.  At  the  age  of 
nineteen,  Father  Placido  had  accomplished  all 
his  studies  ;  he  was  ardent  and  generous,  and 
endowed  by  nature  with  most  uncommon  capa- 
cities. The  other  monks,  jealous  and  envious 
of  his  wisdom  and  love  of  study,  hated  him, 
and  seized  every  opportunity  of  humiliating 
him.  They  saw  in  him,  not  merely  a  brother 
of  their  order,  but  a  true  son  of  the  republic  of 
Venice,  of  that  republic  which  had  made  itself 
the  light  and  the  mistress  of  tlie  greater  part 
of  the  world. 

In  his  lectures,  for  he  held  a  professorship, 
he  recalled  to  his  pupils  the  happy  times  of 
Italian  liberty,  and  the  great  men  whom  that 
time  had  produced.  He  spoke  of  Arnold  of 
Brescia,  the  first  reformer,  as  of  a  messenger 
sent  from  God  to  regenerate  Italy,  and  to  re- 
form religion  and  the  depravity  of  the  Church. 
Girolamo  Savonarola  was,  according  to  him, 
the  prophet  of  the  IGth  century,  the  tribune  of 
the  Florentine  people,  the  martyr  of  liberty  and 
truth  ;  the  writings  of  Paolo  Sarpi,  and  of  the 
Bishop  Scipione  Ricci,  furnished  him  with  ex- 
traordinary texts  for  his  sermons ;  in  a  word, 
ho  was  much  better  fitted  to  have  been  a  min- 
ister of  the  Reformation  than  a  monk  of  St. 


THREE  DAYS  IN  THE  APPENINES. 


57 


Fruncis.     He  was  afterwards  accused  as  a   ; 
heretic  and  a  Carhonaro,  summoned  to  Rome 
to  render  au  account  of  bis  conduct  and  of  his 
writings,  and  finally  obliged  to  appear  before 
the  terrible  tribunal  of  the  Inquisition. 

To  avoid  the  penalties  and  chastisements 
of  the  first  accusation  he  nmst  retract,  and 
make  public  amends;  as  a  Carhonaro,  he 
could  save  himself  from  condemnation  only 
by  denouncing  his  companions  as  conspira- 
tors. Father  Plncido  did  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other;  he  suffered  torture,  and  ten  years 
of  close  imprisonment  in  the  Castle  of  San 
Leo  with  the  most  unheard  of  stoicism  and 
the  greatest  firmness.  Afterwards  he  was 
sent  to  the  convent  of  San  Gottardo  as  a  sim- 
ple lay-bi-otber,  and  was  obliged  to  submit  to 
the  most  severe  rules  of  the  order,  and  per- 
form the  most  painful  labors. 

"  At  the  age  of  twenty-eight  years,"  said 
Father  Placido,  "  I  was  elevated  to  the  rank  of 
superior  of  a  convent  in  Romagna.     Upon  en- 
tering upon  the  duties  of  this  office  I  wished  to 
introduce  reform,  to  oblige  the  monks  to  submit 
to  the  strict  rules  of  their  founder,  and  to  ob- 
seiTe  solemnly  the  vows  of  their  order.     I 
began  by  preaching  to  them  a  new  doctrine ; 
I  desired,  in  matters  of  religion,  to  bring  them 
back  to  the  times  of  the  primitive  Church,  and 
to  the  simplicity  of  her  holiness.     I  spoke  in 
public  against  the  monastic  orders  that  abound- 
ed in  wealth,  and  sometimes  I  touched,  also, 
upon   the   doctrines  of  republicanism  which 
were  to  unite  divided  and  enslaved  Italy.   The 
monks,  who  loved  better  their  own  amuse- 
ments and  abandoned  lives,  felt  my  superiority 
as  an  iusuj)portable  yoke,  and  finally  deter- 
mined to  rid  themselves  of  me  by  denouncing 
me  to  Rome  as  a  heretic  and  a  republican." 

AH  was  silence  and  darkness  within  the 
convent ;  the  lamps  in  the  passages  had  been 
extinguished,  which  was  not  the  ordinaiy  cus- 
tom ;  the  lay-brethren,  in  the  ai*ms  of  Morphe- 
us, snored  loudly,  while  the  father  confessors 
were  in  the  church,  ready  to  give  absolution 
to  the  women.  The  hour  for  the  performance 
of  the  miracle  approached,  and  we  were  curi- 
ous to  witness  the  intercession  of  the  saint ; 
accordingly  we  applied  to  Father  Placido  for 
permission  to  enter  as  spect^itors.  This,  he 
assured  us,  was  impossible,  and  forbidden  even 
to  the  lay-brothei-s.  "All  is  mysteiy,"  said 
he,  "  this  night  in  the  church ;"  and  conduct- 
ing us  to  the  chamber  that  had  been  assigned 
uS,  he  gave  us  his  benediction  and  retired. 


On  entering  in  my  new  lodgings,  I  believed 
at  once  they  had  been  used  for  a  kitchen  or 
as  a  vestiy,  so  dark  were  the  walls ;  all  the 
furniture  of  the  room  consisted  of  a  cot,  a 
wooden  chair,  a  stool  to  kneel  upon,  with  a 
large  copper  crucifix  and  a  closet  full  of  books, 
all  dusty  and  confusedly  scattered,  as  if  those 
books  had  forever  to  be  forgotten,  and  no  more 
to  interest  any  reader.  A  small  table  was  neai- 
the  bed  with  my  ti-embling  light,  which  made 
a  thousand  various  shades  around  me ;  upon 
the  table  was  a  Latin  prayer-book,  an  horn- 
glass,  and  a  human  skull. 

The  dawn  had  not  yet  appeared  when  the 
church  bells  began  to  ring  and  announce  the 
fete  of  San  Gottardo  ;  the  monks  were  singing 
the  morning  prayers,  while  the  husbands  and 
all  the  male  sex  were  admitted  into  the  church. 
The  mii-acle  was  already  done ;  the  barren 
women  were  sure  to  become  mothers,  and  the 
sickly  person  believed  to  be  cured.     San  Got- 
tardo's  day  announced  itself  beautiful  and  se- 
rene .     The  convent  was  early  full  of  strangers, 
visitors,  and  benefactors;  the  lay-monks  had 
to  receive  the  offers,  and  give  as  a  reward 
leaden  or  copper  Jesuses  and  small  rosaries. 
Some  of  them  were  entertaining  friends  with 
chocolate  and  coffee,  but  the  most  busy  were 
the  cook  and  the  butler.     The  noise  that  was 
heard  from  time  to  time  any  one  would  have 
believed  to  be  the  crackling  of  fire-works,  but 
it  was  the  corks  of  hundreds  of  bottles  which 
were  cleared  at  eveiy  moment.     The  fathers 
of  the  convent  were  not  less  occupied  ;  they 
had  to  say  mass,  to  confess,  to  bless  those  who 
were  animated  by  devilish  spirits,  to  receive 
money  in  order  to  pray  for  the  souls  in  purgato- 
ry, or  for  those  who  were  sick  or  unbelievers. 
Prayers  and  toasts  were  addressed  to  the 
saint  by  eveiy  one,  and  a  splendid  sermon  was 
preached  by  Father  Baccus,  who  had  lately 
an'ived  from  Jenisalem,  where  he  had  been 
sent  as  a  punishment  for  a  little  amour  with 
one  of  his  female  penitents.    He  began  his  dis- 
course by  making  a  tremendous  noise  with  his 
hands  and  feet,  exposing  little  by  little  all  the 
virtues  of  San  Gottardo,  his  history,  death,  and 
millions  of  miracles.    According  to  the  preach- 
er, San  Gottardo  had  been  a  great  man — not 
in  his  form,  or  in  sciences,  but  in  penances  and 
sufferings ;  he  deprived  himself  always  of  meat 
and  fish,  eating  only  grass  and  bread  ;  he  lived 
not  in  a  palace  like  a  bishop,  nor  in  a  tub  like 
Diogenes,  but  in  an  oven,  where  he  passed  all 
his  life  and  died.     San  Gottardo  had  raised 


58 


THREE     DAYS    IN    THE     APPENINES. 


from  the  dead  an  ass,  tlie  only  support  of  a 
poor  laborer ;  granted  to  thousands  of  barren 
women  to  become  mothers — this  was  the  most 
•dear  miracle  of  the  saint,  and  I  believe  of  the 
preacher;  he  had  cured  millions  of  invalid  per- 
sons, and  what  not ; — Father  Baccus  finished 
his  bombast  by  exhorting  the  hearers  to  give 
alms,  &.C.,  &c.  While  such  a  comedy  was 
playing  in  the  church,  outside  of  the  con- 
vent the  people  were  not  silent.  The  liquor 
sellers  wore  doing  good  business  ;  the  dentists 
or  quacks,  after  having  amused  the  crowd  with 
songs  and  music  and  magic  plays,  offered  to 
them  for  a  sous  the  leaden  medal  of  San  Got- 
tardo,  blessed  in  articido  mortis  by  the  holy 
father,  with  twenty  years  of  indulgences,  and 
all  this  gratuitously.  A  person  who  carried 
it  on  him  was  preserved  from  every  danger, 
and  from  sudden  death.  Near  the  convent 
was  a  fountain  called  San  Gottardo's  fountain, 
in  which  it  was  believed  that  he  appeared  visi- 
ble once  a  year. 

Among  the  monks  I  met  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  some  years  before  professed  an  eternal 
hatred  to  religious  orders  and  difFerent  princi- 
ples. The  surprise  was  great  on  both  sides ; 
while  he  believed  me  buried  in  a  desert  of 
Egypt,  or,  as  the  prophet  Jonah,  in  the  womb 
of  a  whale,  I  thought  him  in  a  different  place 
from  that  of  a  convent.  Entering  his  hum- 
ble cell  he  began  to  tell  me  his  interesting 
history  since  his  entrance  into  a  religious 
order. 

CHAPTER    VI. 

I  was  scarcely  seventeen  years  old  when  1 
lost  my  mother.  My  father,  being  entirely 
devoted  to  religion,  destined  me  from  my  earli- 
est childhood  for  the  Church.  A  man  of  irre- 
proachable moral  conduct,  he  was  thought  to 
possess  great  piety;  a  saint  in  fact,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  because  he  was  neither  a 
gambler  nor  libertine,  neither  given  to  women 
nor  wine.  Indeed  he  often  boasted  to  his  fam- 
ily of  the  popular  estimation  which  he  really 
thought  he  deserved  on  account  of  his  works 
of  piety  and  charity. 

My  sister,  too,  although  younger  than  myself 
by  a  year,  could  not  escape  the  snares  that 
wefe  pet  for  us,  nor  avoid  the  sad  lot  for  which 
w«  were  destined. 

My  father  believed  that  as  a  zealous  servant 
of  God,  he  could  <lo  no  more  holy  or  meritorious 
deed,  than  in  offering  two  agreeable  victims  to 
him*  by  enrolling  both  of  us  in  monastic  orders. 


To  sacrifice  two  victims  at  a  blow  was,  in  his 
opinion,  to  gain  two  new  titles  to  future  hap- 
piness. One  day  he  sent  for  me  to  come  to 
his  room,  where,  after  some  preliminary  prom- 
ises, and  affectionate  speeches,  he  explained  to 
me  his  settled  determination.  "  My  son,"  said 
he,  "  it  is  now  several  years  since  I  made  a 
vow  to  consecrate  my  children  to  God,  and  now 
is  the  most  suitable  time  to  do  it.  You  are 
motherless,  and  I  see  no  surer  means  of  saving 
you  from  the  snares  of  the  world  than  by  placing 
you  both  in  the  ranks  of  one  of  the  religious 
orders."  I  answered  my  fatlier  that  such  was  not 
our  wish  ;  that  I  and  my  sister  were  as  yet  too 
young  to  come  to  any  determination,  that  we 
ought  to  be  allowed  time  seriously  to  reflect  on 
an  affair  of  such  immense  importance  to  us, 
that  he  should  wait  until  our  minds  were  more 
fully  matured. 

My  father,  not  expecting  such  an  opposition 
to  his  wishes,  and  finding  promises  of  no  avail, 
had  recourse  to  threats.  He  told  me  that  i£ per- 
suasion would  not  determine  me  to  act  accord- 
ing to  his  wishes, /orce  should.  With  regard 
to  my  sister,  he  acted  with  more  circumspection. 
He  charged  his  worthy  confessor  with  this  deli- 
cate mission,  and,  as  you  may  well  suppose,  she 
was  soon  conquered. 

He  told  her  of  a  certain  holy  woman,  who 
every  day  after  dinner  used  to  walk  with  Jesus 
in  her  garden,  of  another  who  received  him  at 
midnight  in  her  bed-chamber,  where  they  con- 
versed about  the  eternal  glory  and  the  life  of 
the  blessed.  He  dazzled  her  mind  by  his  picture 
of  her  change  of  life,  he  excited  her  curiosity 
with  regard  to  the  mysteries  unknown  to  the 
people,  the  honors  accorded  to  the  virginal 
condition,  the  example,  religious  discipline,  &c. 
He  assured  her  that  after  death  she  would 
enjoy  the  pleasure  of  being  beatified,  venerated, 
sanctified,  and  what  not.  She  finally  yielded 
to  these  deceitful  illusions,  and  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  took  the  veil. 

Discouraged  by  the  precipitous  decision  of 
my  sister,  abandoned  by  all  my  relatives  and 
friends,  assailed  every  day  with  new  ti.'-eats, 
and  despairing  of  any  other  resource,  I  offc~ed 
my  neck  like  a  lamb  to  the  butcher,  and  the 
cowl  was  forced  upon  me  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen. 

Once  entered  upon  my  novitiate  1  had  no 
news  of  my  father  until  I  heard  of  his  death 
eleven  months  after  I  entered  the  monastery. 
As  to  my  sister,  after  three  montiis  of  a  con- 
ventual life,  she  was  tired  of  it  and  disgusted 


THREE     DAYS    IN    THE    APPENINES. 


59 


with  ever)'  thing  that  surrounded  her.  These 
poor  young  girls  shut  up  from  their  earliest 
childhood  in  cloisters,  surrounded  by  high  walls, 
without  the  slightest  hope  of  ever  leaving 
them,  repent  of  the  vows  they  have  pronounced, 
and  ashamed  of  having  been  deceived,  they 
hscome  like  famished  tigers  enclosed  in  cages 
and  deprived  of  their  liberty.  Always  sur- 
rounded by  superannuated  nuns,  ir-capable  of 
love  or  tolerance,  these  young  victims  pass  their 
life  in  the  midst  of  regrets  and  tears. 

Engaged  in  an  order  of  mendicant  friars,!  was 
obliged  to  live  among  a  set  of  men,  brothers  in 
name  but  far  from  being  so  at  heart,*  men  of 
the  profoundest  ignorance,  who  always  live  in 
the  obscurity  of  their  monastic  institutions, 
strangers  to  all  science  and  to  every  new  discov- 
ery, for  fear  of  being  suspected  of  heresy ;  who 
pass  their  time  in  prayer,  except  such  part  of  it 
as  is  devoted  to  scolding  or  chastising 'the  no- 
vices; men,  without  a  future  and  without  a 
past,  incapable  of  teaching  wliat  they  them- 
selves do  not  know,  and  whose  only  use  ap- 
pears to  be  to  fill  tlie  world  with  beings  useless 
to  society,  with  coarse  and  unlearned  monks, 
with  badly  educated  laymen,  who  derive  all 
their  wit  and  eloquence  from  pinches  of  snuff 
and  bottles  of  port  wine. 

Because  I  was  delicate  and  of  frail  constitu- 
tion, having  been  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury  ;  but 
above  all,  because  I  belonged  to  one  of  the  first 
families  of  Italy — I  was  loaded  with  kindness 
and  caresses,  and,  during  the  first  months  of 
my  monastic  life,  was  exempted  from  fasts  and 
night  vigils ;  nothing,  in  fact,  was  demanded  of 
me,  and  for  nothing  was  L  scolded.  I  soon  dis- 
covered tliat  the  plan  of  the  superior  was,  that 
in  the  commencement  I  should  be  so  treated 
that  every  thing  about  me  should  wear  a  smiling 
aspect.  All  these  indulgences  and  caresses 
were  of  short  duration,  for,  scarcely  was  my 
father  in  his  grave,  before  the  severest  penances 
were  heaped  upon  me,  such  as  the  holy  fathers 
never  thouglit  of  inflicting  upon  themselves. 
What  an  lUusive  idea  the  world  forms  of  these 
monastic  labyrinths.  I  myself,  before  enterinor 
one,  aad  formed  quite  an  erroneous  conception 
of  it ;  I  thought  that  I  would  there  find  charity, 
tolerance,  fraternity  and  love,  but  alas!  in  a 
s'lort  time  my  bright  vision  had  vanished  before 
the  sad  reality.  I  soon  learned  that  these  fathers 
(fathers  in  more  senses  than  one)  only  lived 

•    I  frati  nascono   senza    vedersi,   vivcmo   sema 
amarst,  mu  jon ;  s(nza  jnangtrsi.  \ 


for  ths  enjoyment  of  good  eating  and  drinking, 
and  frequently  for  the  indulgence  of  less  inno- 
cent appetites.  I  found  that  the  reason  that 
induced  them  to  enter  the  convent,  was  rather 
a  taste  for  il  dolcefar  niente,  than  -any  motives 
of  piety.  As  they  are  lazy,  stupid,  and  igno- 
rant men,  having  no  taste  for  literature,  entirely 
abandoned  to  the  indulgence  of  their  appetites, 
they  are  always  ready  to  pounce  upon  any  one 
of  their  body,  who  shows  any  refinement  of 
mind,  or  any  preference  for  study,  over  idleness 
and  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 

The  time  for  me  to  take  the  vows*  was  fast 
approaching ;  at  first  I  expressed  my  intention 
of  quitting  the  convent  and  the  cowl,  and  openly 
spoke  of  regaining  my  liberty,  for  my  health 
was  daily  giving  way,  and  continuing  to  live 
in  this  detestable  manner  would,  I  plainly  per- 
ceived, be  entering  upon  a  career  of  tears  and 
troubles.  Now  the  superior  let  loose  upon  me 
all  the  monks  and  demimonks,  the  caterer,  and 
even  the  turnspit  of  the  convent.  I  was  told 
that  my  desire  to  quit  the  cowl  was  the  work 
of  the  devil,  that  he  wished  to  withdraw  me 
from  under  the  protection  of  St.  Francis ;  that, 
in  order  to  withstand  his  temptations,  it  would 
be  necessary  to  redouble  my  fasts,  my  hair- 
cloth shirts  and  other  penances :  singular  and 
miraculous  examples  were  quoted ;  the  perils 
of  the  world  were  depicted  to  me  in  the  most 
tragical  colors ;  I  was  told  that  beyond  the  walls 
of  the  monastery  I  would  find  neither  peace  nor 
salvation  ;  that  hell  was  filled  with  apostates, 
who  after  having  entered  the  convent  had  re- 
turned to  the  world  ;  that  many  were  now  suf- 
fering the  torments  of  purgatory,  who,  having 
quitted  the  cowl,  had  again  returned  to  their 
duty,  but  who,  for  this  first  transgression,  were 
condemned  to  weep  and  wail  in  purgatory, 
until  the  holy  and  just  anger  of  the  founder 
should  be  appeased.  Some  would  tell  me  that 
in  the  world  I  would  be  always  surrounded  by 
dangers,  drawn  by  insensible  degrees  to  perdi- 
tion, assailed  at  one  time  by  the  devil,  at  ano- 
ther by  the  women.  In  a  word  they  tried  every 
thing  to  shake  my  enfeebled  resolution.  Be- 
sides these  means  of  seduction,  they  added  the 
terrors  of  their  exorcisms,  apparitions  and  even 
ghosts. 

A  short  time  before  the  day  for  taking  mj 

*  "Monks  make  three  vows,  those  of  obedience, 
poverty,  and  chastity ;  the  first  is  said  to  be  kept  best 
of  all — I  doubt  it — as  to  the  second  I  can  affirm  that 
it  is  not  at  all  observed  ;  of  the  third  I  leave  you  to 
judge  for  yourself. — Montesquieu — iMtres  Persannes. 


60 


THREE    DAYS    IN    THE    APPENINES. 


vows,  the  fatal  day  when  I  was  to  make  the 
greatest  possible  sacrifice,  my  father  died,  and 
left  all  his  possessions  to  churches  and  con- 
vents. Thus  deprived  of  every  resource,  shut 
out  from  ev«ry  hope,  I  consented  to  pronounce 
the  vows  rather  with  my  lips  than  with  my 
heart  (as  almost  all  monks  do),  and  to  say  to 
the  fatal  destiny  which  pursued  me  "  Fiat  vo- 
luntas tua."* 

CHATTER    VII. 

At  this  time  the  dinner  bell  rang,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  defer  the  conclusion  of  our  in- 
teresting conversation  until  some  more  favora- 
ble opportunity;  Ludovico  and  myself  were 
placed  at  that  part  of  the  table  appropriated  to 
strangers,  and  the  monks  commenced  the  repast 
with  the  benedicite  and  the  mangicate  benefra- 
tres,  eat '  well,  brothers.  A  profound  silence 
reigned  in  the  vast  refectory  interrupted  only 
by  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  of  the  monks, 
who  devoured  the  chickens  in  ictu  oculi,  and 
with  the  most  unparalleled  avidity.  After  a 
few  moments  a  novice  mounted  the  rostra  to 
read.  The  selection  for  that  day  happened  to 
be  the  life  of  St.  Gaetano,  the  famous  antago- 
nist of  Luther,  the  intimate  friend  of  Tetzel.  I 
must  commence  by  telling  you  that  the  author 
of  this  work  was  a  monk,  and  one  of  those 
monks  too  of  the  15th  century,  a  dirty,  igno- 
rant, drinking,  bloated  demagogue. 

The  historian  calumniated,  no  less  than  he 
did  Luther,  the  prudent  Erasmus  and  the  mild 
Melancthon.  These  three  wonderful  geniuses, 
these  three  great  lights  of  the  15th  and  16th 
centuries,  who  did  so  much  good  to  humanity, 
although  of  different  religious  opinions,  and  far 
from  agreeing  among  themselves,  were  con- 
sidered in  the  same  light  by  the  historian,  and 
treated  in  the  same  manner.  Luther,  Erasmus, 
and  the  mild  Melancthon,  that  celebrated  Hel- 
lenist, that  young  apostle  of  truth,  endowed 
with  an  elevated  genius,  of  an  angelic  expres- 
sion of  face,  of  a  most  compassionate  heart ; 
who,  in  all  his  actions  and  words  inspired  only 
charity  and  love  ;  these  three,  I  say,  were  con- 
sidered by  this  low  and  ignorant  monk  as  a 
Diabolic  Trinity. 

This  is  a  specimen  of  the  profitable  reading 
that  is  listened  to  in  monastic  institutions.    To 

•  The  gacrifice  of  one's  self,  that  is,  the  double  sa- 
crifice of  body  and  soul,  the  renouncing  of  all  that 
Nature  offers  us  and  that  God  prescribes  for  our  use, 
is  a  part  of  the  religion  of  Cybella,  of  Brahma,  of 
Buddhab  and  of  the  Pythagorean  School. 


the  newly  initiated  what  an  improving  lesson, 
and  with  what  love  they  must  be  inspired  for 
those  of  a  different  religion  ! !  This  literary 
nonsense  reminded  me  incessantly  of  those 
times  when  the  monks  and  theologians  con- 
temporary with  these  three  great  men,  em- 
braced in  the  same  hatred  sacred  and  profane 
literature,  philosophy,  and  the  free  discussion 
of  religious  matters,  even  that  of  the  antiquity 
and  authenticity  of  the  Evangelists.  I  do  not 
deny  that  the  monks,  and  the  whole  religious 
hierarchy,  had  good  cause  for  attacking  them, 
particularly  Erasmus.  For  Erasmus  did  them 
more  harm  by  his  writings  than  Luther  by  his 
eloquence.  These  orders  of  every  name,  these 
monks  heated  with  wine,  in  vain  declaimed 
against  the  Reformers ;  in  vain  burnt  their 
works  in  public  ;  in  vain  cursed  them,  anathe- 
matized them ;  in  vain  called  them  by  turns 
fools,  asses,  heretics,  ("  heretics,  particularly," 
says  Erasmus  himself,  "for  that  word  includes 
all  the  rest.") 

While  the  fathers  were  engaged  in  loosing 
their  girdles,  their  bellies  had  already  begun 
to  distend,  the  novices  and  the  lay-brothers 
of  the  week  waited  on  the  table  with  the 
greatest  modesty  and  the  profoundest  silence. 
One  of  these  young  monks  having  accidentally 
broken  the  plate,  was  punished  by  the  father  of 
the  novices,  heated  with  wine  and  anger,  in 
the  same  manner  as  an  unmanageable  horse 
would  be  punished.  He  was  forced  to  kne^l 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  refectory,  holding  in 
his  mouth  a  wooden  bit.  This  poor  victim  was 
obliged  to  remain  in  this  painful  position  during 
the  whole  of  dinner-time,  and  as  if  tliis  was 
not  enough,  the  superior  compelled  him  to  say 
200  paternosters  for  eight  days  in  succession. 
It  was  an  entirely  new  thing  to  me,  that  prayer 
should  be  considered  a  punishment  to  man. 
An  excellent  means,  forsooth,  to  draw  prose- 
lytes to  this  religion  of  love  and  pardon  !  At 
length  the  dinner  over,  the  agimus  and  requiemus 
were  chaunted,  and  then  the  whole  community 
retired  to  the  gardens  for  recreation. 

Wiiat  a  delicious,  what  an  enchanting  view 
the  position  of  the  convent  offered  ;  an  abode, 
more  suitable  for  society  and  love,  than  for 
solitude  and  apathy.  It  was  situated  on  the 
summit  of  a  picturesque  hill,  covered  with 
green  lawns,  dotted  in  every  direction  with 
a  great  variety  of  beautiful  flowers,  and  here 
and  there  extensive  vineyards,  which  appeared 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  shades  of  the  valley 
by  an  almost  perpendicular  descent.     A  shady 


THREE  DAYS  IN  THE  APPENINES. 


61 


forest,  abounding  in  herbs  and  flowers,  and 
watered  in  all  directions  by  rippling  brooks, 
protected  the  garden  from  the  scorching  rays 
of  the  sun.  A  high  wall  surrounded  this  ex- 
tensive garden,  as  if  forever  to  separate  these 
recluses  from  other  men.  Following  the  course 
of  this  enclosure  was  a  walk  between  rows  of 
Lombardy  poplars,  and  at  regular  intervals 
were  seen  grottoes,  where  the  monks  were  in 
the  habit  of  retiring  for  reading  or  meditation. 

Whilst  walking  in  the  midst  of  these  ceno- 
bites,  I  remarked  some  frightfully  hideous 
faces  under  their  dirty  hoods,  which  rather  be- 
tokened barbarity  than  a  religious  vocation. 
They  were,  so  at  least  I  was  told,  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  refugees,  the  remains  of  the  guer- 
illas monks  of  Don  Carlos  and  Don  Miguel ; 
men  most  formidable  in  war,  but  most  useless 
in  peace.  These  monks,  that  were  once  the 
terror  of  Spain  and  Portugal — in  fact,  the  ab- 
solute and  arbitrary  masters  of  them — here 
they  were,  at  length  compelled  to  fly  from  the 
just  vengeance  of  these  long-oppressed  people, 
and  obliged,  as  a  last  refuge,  to  take  shelter  in 
Italy,  a  country  already  sufficiently  infected  by 
thousands  of  others.  One  of  them,  who  seemed 
rather  a  Bey  of  Africa  than  a  monk  of  St. 
Francis,  had  been  one  of  the  most  faithful  and 
sanguinary  followers  of  Don  Miguel,  the  Nero 
of  modem  times,  and  at  the  epoch  of  the  Por- 
tuguese revolution  one  of  the  editors  of  a 
paper  called  the  "  Flayed  Beast."* 

Leaving  in  our  rear  these  ex-inquisitors,  we 
directed  our  steps,  by  a  short  and  shady  path, 
towards  the  house  of  the  dead.  Ha vi  ng  arrived 
in  this  species  of  grotto,  I  contemplated  with 
interest  the  last  home  of  these  cenobites,  who 
pass  their  whole  lives  in  solitude  and  idleness. 
Contiguous  to  the  principal  grotto  there  were 
four  small  cells,  where  werp  placed  the  tombs 
of  those  monks  who  died  in  the  odor  of  sancti- 
ty (in  odore  di sanctita).  In  each  cell  there  were 
paintings,  if  you  can  call  paintings  what  were 
mere  daubs,  the  meaning  of  which  it  would  re- 
quire a  most  expert  cicerone  to  explain.  Father 

♦  The  monk  Macedo,  editor  of  this  terrible  paper, 
pablished  at  Lisbon,  in  1826,  with  the  stamp  of  Don 
Miguel  and  the  Inquisition,  in  the  12th  number  ex- 
presses himself  with  the  most  friglitful  calmness  in 
the  following  manner :  "  Fresh  meat  should  be  served 
every  day  to  the  people,  on  account  of  the  scarcity  j/" 
wheat,  and  this  fresh  meat  oug^t  to  be  that  of  the 
Democrats."  As  if  the  religion  of  the  Man-God 
was  nothing  else  but  a  human  butchery,  conducted 
by  butcher-priests  after  the  manner  of  those  of 
Moloch. 


Angiolina  told  us  that  this  place  of  the  dead 
was  considered  of  peculiar  sanctity  by  the  bro- 
therhood ;  that  here  many  came  to  celebrate  the 
divine  offices  for  the  relief  of  the  souls  of  those 
of  their  brethren  who  were  undergoing  the  pains 
of  purgatory.  He  told  us  also  that  the  pictures, 
done  by  a  monk  of  unpractised  hand,  filled 
w^ith  false  ideas,  and  of  an  imagination  wholly 
mythological,  represented  the  four  abodes 
created  by  God  for  the  human  race,  viz :  the 
World,  Purgatory  (created  by  the  Church  ?), 
Hell  and  Paradise. 

On  tlie  walls  of  the  first  cell,  which  was  de- 
dicated to  those  monks  who  had  not  yet  pro- 
nounced the  last  solemn  vows,  was  painted  the 
world  and  its  troubles — the  halt,  the  lame 
and  the  blind ;  men  bending  under  the  weight 
of  chains,  murders  and  assassinations ;  kings, 
princes  and  petty  princes,  without  a  throne, 
without  a  sceptre,  and  without  a  crown  ;  in 
fact,  the  reverend  dauber  had  forgot  nothing 
except  the  Jesuits,  the  Holy  Office,  the  Inqui- 
sition and  torture  (madre  di  iormenti),  the 
greatest  scourges  of  humanity.  By  the  side 
of  this  scale  of  ills  was  a  naked  Eve,  which 
appeared  to  be  a  bad  copy  of  the  Venus  di 
Medici,  placed  there  as  the  source  of  all  evil. 
Beneath  this  figure  was  written,  "Cansa  mali 
tanti  mulier  sola  fuit."  Unfortunate  Eve ! 
how  much  blame  you  have  to  bear  for  having 
tasted  that  sweet  forbidden  fruit ! 

To  complete  this  mystical  daub,  on  every 
side  you  saw  the  separate  tombs  of  the  novices, 
for  each  body  had  its  own  niche,  as  each  sailor 
in  a  ship  has  his  own  berth.  They  were  ranged 
in  this  regular  order  so  as  not  to  ba  con- 
founded with  the  multitude  of  irreligious  monks, 
and  in  order  to  distinguish  them  from  one  ano- 
ther, if  they  should  on  e.xamination  give  any 
miraculous  proof  of  beatification,  &c.  What 
particularly  astonished  me  was,  that,  in  despite 
of  their  virtues  and  works  of  piety,  over  the 
tomb  of  each  was  written  with  charcoal  a 
faithful  description  of  the  worldly  lives  of  the 
enclosed  monks,  their  vices  and  their  crimes. 
"  This  resulted,"  said  our  liberal  and  enlight- 
ened guide,  "  from  the  enmity  of  some  worth- 
less laymen,  who,  not  being  able  to  revenge 
themselves  during  the  life  of  their  brethren, 
had,  by  their  libels,  insulted  their  memory  after 
death.  Over  one  we  read,  "  Here  lies  Brother 
Bemadone,  a  monk,  long  and  lank,  a  fool  and 
an  ignoramus,  surpassing  in  his  natural  sim- 
i  plicity  all  the  other  recluses,  in  the  number  of 
^  pinches  of  tobacco  that  he  had  taken,  and  the 


62 


THREE     DAYS    IN     THE     APPENINES. 


paternosters  he  had  said.  Requiescat  in  pace." 
Over  another :  "  Within  is  enclosed  the  putre- 
fied body  of  Brother  Romanino,  who  died,  they 
say,  in  the  odor  of  sanctity.  He  had  the  habit 
of  drinking  too  much  and  sleeping  too  long 
(monkish  customs)  ;  but  in  order  to  do  a  pen- 
ance worthy  of  his  sins,  he  went  barefooted  at 
midwinter,  and  lay  in  the  snow  at  midnight, 
probably  to  cool  the  vinous  spirit  with  which 
he  was  heated."  Another  said  :  "  Here  is  en- 
tombed Brother  Rimond,  of  Spanish  origin, 
who,  after  having  been  soldier,  brigand  and 
what  not,  took  the  cowl,  and  became  a  model 
of  the  ridiculous.  He  resuscited  the  ass  of  the 
convent,  because  he  was  not  dead." 

The  third  day  of  our  stay  at  San  Gottardo,  I 
went  to  see  the  large  and  useless  library  of  the 
convent,  full  of  fanatical  and  religious  works, 
and  of  libels  against  other  Christian  denomina- 
tions. The  philosophical  books  were  of  course 
all  Aristotelian,  while  Plato  was  banished  as  a 
heretic  and  an  immoral  philosopher.  Not  a 
book  of  impartial  history,  but  all  those  writers 
against  reformers  or  authors  who  were  opposed 
to  their  ultra-Catholic  doctrines.  There  were 
some  hundred  lives  of  saints  and  of  holy  monks, 
accounts  of  miracles,  visions,  or  magical  facts. 
The  martyrs  of  the  church  had  their  place  in 
it,  but  those  murdered  by  the  fanatics  of  the 
church  were  forgotten.  Such  are  the  literary 
works  studied  and  taught  by  the  monks  of  the 
19th  century ! 

Father  Angiolino  was  silent  at  ray  indignant 
remarks,  and  I  saw  that,  although  he  did  not 
like  the  religious  orders,  he  had  become  so  ac- 
customed to  their  idle  life  that  the  life  of  doing 
nothing  was  very  pleasant  to  him. 

The  last  evening  I  spent  in  the  monastery, 
my  mind  was  seized  by  horrible  thoughts  con- 
cerning the  human  skull.  I  could  not  leave 
that  solitary  and  mysterious  place  without 
learning  the  true  meaning  of  the  infamous 
writing  which  I  found  upon  it  the  first  evening 
of  my  visit  to  the  convent. 

It  was  already  midnight,  and  the  monks 
were  retiring  to  their  cells.  Alone,  in  that 
dark  and  gloomy  room,  I  looked  again  at  the 
closet  filled  with  the  old  books.  I  hoped  to 
find  in  it  some  memento  left  by  the  unfortunate 
man  who  had  inhabited  that  cell  before  me. 
My  expectations  were  not  entirely  disappointed. 
After  liaving  carefully  examined  the  dusty 
book-case,  I  found  an  old  manuscript,  tied  and 
Mtled  with  black  wax.    It  was  left  to  me  to 


discover  a  mystery  unknown  till  now  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  convent. 

The  author  of  this  manuscript  was  the  owner 
of  the  skull  which  the  monks  had  so  infamously 
abused,  and  I  could  perceive  by  the  style  of  the 
memento  he  had  committed  suicide.  Before 
quitting  the  world  his  intention  was  to  leave  a 
record  or  history  of  his  life,  but  being  deprived 
of  every  friend  to  whom  he  could  confide  his 
secret,  he  left  this  writing  among  those  books, 
believing  that  one  day  it  would  be  discovered. 
He  said  he  had  been  an  innocent  and  unhappy 
victim  to  the  custom  of  noble  families,  whose 
younger  child  or  daughter  was  compelled  to 
enter  a  religious  order,  and  so  maintain  the 
hierarchy  and  religious  aristocracy.  When 
seventeen  years  old  he  loved  a  fair  Italian 
beauty,  to  whom  he  hoped  one  day  to  be  united. 
But  his  father  sent  him  to  a  convent  some 
hundred  miles  from  home.  When  there,  they 
told  him  that  the  lady  he  loved  was  dead. 
After  eight  years  of  monastical  life  in  different 
parts  of  Italy,  he  was  sent  to  San  Gottardo,  as 
the  father  confessor  of  the  monastery  of  the 
nuns  of  Saint  Orsola.  There  ho  discovered 
his  beloved  Maria,  who  had  taken  the  veil. 
The  passion  had  not  been  extinguished  in  their 
hearts,  they  had  not  forgotten  each  other,  and 
the  dark  plot  used  to  prevent  their  union  could 
only  irritate  them  against  the  monastical  life. 
In  vain  did  he  write  to  Rome  to  the  holy  father 
to  be  dismissed  from  his  vows. 

She  was  an  angel  of  beauty.  She  had  taken 
the  veil  because  she  heard  from  her  first  con- 
fessor that  her  lover  was  dead.  Jesuits  make 
people  die  when  living.  Finding  all  other 
resources  to  fail,  the  confessor  and  the  sister 
at  length  determined  to  fly  from  the  convent. 
But  alas  !  on  the  day  fixed  for  their  departure 
the  sister  Maria  fell  suddenly  sick,  and  after  a 
few  days  died.  He  assisted  her  as  the  father 
confessor  at  her  dying  bed.  He  received  her 
last  breath,  listened  to  her  last  words,  and 
pronounced  the  last  prayer  for  the  departed  over 
her.  She  died  with  an  angelic  smile  on  her 
face,  and  with  her  hands  clasped  in  those  of  her 
lover. 

By  his  last  words,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
commited  suicide,  and  the  monks,  as  an  eternal 
and  horrible  memory  of  the  victim,  had  stripped 
the  skull,  and  wrote  upon  it  infamous  words. 
I  buried  the  skull  the  day  I  left  that  mysterious 
convent. 


TO    A    MOTHER.— THE     HOSTILE    BROTHERS. 


63 


THREE    TIMES    BEHBAVED    OF    AN    ONLY    CHILD. 


'Tis  said,  beneath  the  tropic's  bound 

Rises  a  stately  tree, 
With  graceful  verdure  fitly  crowned — 

Lofty  and  fair  to  see. 

But  though  its  top  a  tenderer  green 

Wears  in  the  early  spring, 
And  the  young  thrifty  shoots  are  seen 

Betokening  blossoming  ; 

And  though  tall  spires  of  bell-shaped  flowers, 

As  chiselled  ivory  pure. 
Might  rise  to  crown  its  summer  hours. 

And  wealth  of  fruit  ensure  ; 

Nor  fragrant  flower  nor  graceful  fruit 

That  fated  palm  may  know  ; 
Spring  after  spring  its  tender  shoot 

Puts  forth,  but  not  to  grow  ; 


For  ever  comes  the  tiller's  knife 
With  stroke  severe  and  true. 

And  severs  there  that  palm-tree's  life — 
Its  old  life  from  its  new. 

Back  on  its  heart  the  living  tide 

Is  turned — not  there  to  die 
A  wasted  fount — but  channels  wide 

Of  rarer  use  supply. 

From  that  alembic  shall  come  forth 

A  cordial  rich  and  high, 
A  timely  draught  of  priceless  worth, 

Amid  the  deserts  dry 

When  he  on  arid  sands  who  faints, 
Revived  shall  bless  its  power. 

Sad  mother,  where  toere  thy  complaints^ 
If  thine  that  palm-tree's  dower  ? 


From  the  German  of  Anerbach. 
Br     MHS.     ST.     SIMON. 


Iir  the  damp  and  thinly-populated  street  called 
the  "  Kniebis,  in  a  village  of  the  Schwartz- 
wald,  there  stood  a  small  house,  with  a  stall 
and  shed.  This  abode  had  but  three  windows, 
which  were  provided,  in  part,  with  paper,  in- 
stead of  glass ;  the  shutter  of  the  garret  window 
hung  but  by  a  single  hinge,  and  seemed  ready 
to  fall  at  each  moment.  A  small  garden  lay 
adjacent  to  the  dwelling,  divided  lengthwise 
into  two  equal  parts  by  a  hedge  of  thorns. 

This  house  was  occupied  by  two  brothers, 
who  had  dwelt  together  for  fourteen  years  in 
incessant  hostility.  Like  the  garden,  the 
whole  house  was  divided,  fro.i.  the  garret  down 
to  the  little  cellar ;  the  trap-door  was  open,  but 
below  each  had  a  space  partitioned  off"  with 
laths ;  padlocks  were  fastened  upon  all  the 
doors,  as  if  they  stood  in  hourly  fear  of  burg- 


lars ;  the  stall  belonged  to  the  one,  the  shed  to 
the  other  brother ;  not  a  word  was  heard  in  the 
house,  except  when  one  or  the  other  muttered 
an  oath. 

Michel  and  Conrad  (thus  were  the  two  bro- 
thers called)  were  both  well  advanced  in  years, 
and  both  unmarried ;  Conrad  had  early  lost 
his  wife,  Michel  had  never  married. 

A  large  blue-painted  chest  was  the  original 
cause  of  their  enmity. 

After  their  mother's  death,  the  property  wag 
to  have  been  divided  between  them,  as  their 
sister,  who  was  married  and  lived  in  the  village, 
had  alreiiiy  received  her  due  share.  Conrad 
declared  that  he  had  bought  the  chest  with  his 
own  money,  which  he  had  earned  by  breaking 
stones  upon  the  highway  ;  that  he  had  only  lent 
it  to  his  motiier,  and  that  it  belonged  to  him. 


64 


THE    HOSTILE     BROTHERS. 


Michel,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that  his 
brother  had  always  lived  at  home,  eaten  of  his 
mother's  bread,  and  could  therefore  call  nothing 
his  own  property.  After  a  violent  personal 
altercation,  the  matter  came  before  the  burgo- 
master, and  then  before  the  court,  and  it  was 
decreed  that,  as  the  brothers  could  not  agree, 
all  the  furniture  in  the  house,  including  the 
chest,  should  be  sold,  and  the  proceeds  be 
divided  between  them.  Indeed,  the  house 
itself  was  offered  for  sale,  but  as  no  purchaser 
was  found,  the  brothers  were  obliged  to 
keep  it. 

They  must  now  purchase  their  own  things, 
their  beds,  their  tables,  and  so  forth,  at  auction  ; 
this  caused  Conrad  many  a  sigh,  for  he  was 
somewhat  more  sensitive  than  is  usual  among 
men  in  his  class  of  life.  There  are,  in  every 
family,  various  articles  which  a  stranger  can- 
not obtain  for  money ;  they  are  worth  much 
more  than  he  is  willing  to  pay  for  them,  for 
thoughts  and  remembrances  cleave  to  them 
which  have  no  value  for  any  but  the  original 
possessor. 

Such  articles  should  be  silently  bequeathed 
from  generation  to  generation,  that  their  inward 
value  may  remain  inviolate ;  if  one  is  obliged 
to  wrest  them  from  the  hands  of  others,  to  strive 
for  them  with  a  stranger  for  money,  a  large 
part  of  their  original  worth  vanishes  ;  they  are 
obtained  at  their  market  price,  and  not  inher- 
ited as  a  family  relic.  Such  were  the  thoughts 
which  often  caused  Conrad  to  shake  his  head 
as  some  old  article  of  furniture  was  struck  off 
to  him,  and  when  the  black  velvet-covered 
hymn-book  of  his  mother,  with  its  silver  clasps 
and  hinges,  was  put  up  for  sale,  and  a  pedlar 
weighed  the  silver  in  his  hand,  in  order  to  judge 
of  its  value,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and 
he  bought  the  hymn-book  at  a  high  price.  At 
last  it  came  to  the  chest;  Michel  hemmed 
aloud,  cast  a  challenging  glance  upon  liis 
brother,  and  at  once  offered  a  considerable  sum 
for  it.  Conrad,  without  looking  up,  bid  quickly 
a  florin  more,  and  lie  counted  the  buttons  upon 
his  coat,  but  Michel,  glancing  boldly  around, 
bid  higher;  no  one  else  made  an  offer,  and 
neither  of  the  brothers  would  resign  the  chest 
to  the  other — each  thought  to  himself,  "  I  shall 
only  have  to  pay  for  lialf  of  it,"  and  thus  they 
bid  higher  and  higher,  until  at  last  the  chest 
was  Btruck  off  for  more  than  five  times  its 
value,  for  right  and  twenty  florins,  to  Conrad. 

He  now,  for  tlie  flrst  time,  looked  up,  and 
the  expresMion  of  his  face  was  entirely  altered  ; 


(  scorn  and  mockery  gleamed  from  his  staring 
>  eyes,  his  open  mouth,  and  from  every  feature 
I  of  his  visage.  "  When  you  die  I  will  give  you 
the  chest,  that  they  may  lay  you  in  it,"  he  said, 
trembling  with  fury,  to  Michel ;  and  these  were 
the  last  words  which  he  had  spoken  to  him  for 
fourteen  years. 

The  story  of  the  chest  caused  great  amuse- 
ment throughout  the  whole  village,  and  when 
a  neighbor  met  Conrad,  he  would  remark  how 
shamefully  Michel  had  treated  him,  and  Con- 
rad grew  more  and  more  enraged  against  his 
Drother. 

In  addition  to  this,  the  two  brothers  were  of 
very  different  dispositions,  and  pursued  differ- 
ent paths. 

Conrad  had  an  ox  which  he  worked  in  the 
field  with  the  ox  of  his  neighbor  Christian  ;  at 
other  times  he  broke  stones  upon  the  highway 
for  fifteen  kreutzers  a  day.  He  was  very 
near-sighted,  his  gait  was  unsteady,  and  when 
he  struck  a  light  he  always  brought  the  tinder 
close  to  his  nose,  in  order  to  be  certain  that  it 
had  caught  fire.  He  was  called  through  the 
whole  village  "  blind  Conradli."  The  li  was 
appended  to  his  name  because  he  was  short  in 
stature. 

Michel,  on  tiie  other  hand,  was  entirely  the 
reverse  of  this;  he  was  tall  and  thin,  and 
walked  with  a  firm  step ;  he  went  dressed  as  a 
peasant,  not  because  he  really  was  one,  but 
because  it  was  advantageous  to  him  in  his  oc- 
cupation ;  he  traded,  to  wit,  in  old  horses,  and 
the  purchasers  had  far  more  confidence  when 
bargaining  with  a  man  in  the  dress  of  a  coun- 
tryman. Michel  had  been  a  blacksmith,  and 
had  failed  in  his  business ;  he  in  part  sold,  in 
part  farmed  out  his  land,  turned  his  whole 
attention  to  horse-dealing,  and  led  as  gay  and 
careless  a  life  as  possible.  He  was  considered 
an  important  personage  throughout  the  whole 
district;  for  six  or  eight  leagues  around,  in 
Wurtemburg,  in  all  Sigmaringen,  and  Hech- 
ingen,  even  as  far  as  Baden,  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  condition  and  complement  of  the 
stables,  as  a  great  statesmen  is  with  the  statis- 
tics of  foreign  countries,  and  the  position  of 
their  cabinets ;  and  as  the  latter  learns  the  dis- 
position of  the  people  in  the  newspapers,  the 
former  learned  it  in  the  taverns.  In  every 
village,  also,  he  had  some  vagrant  residing  as 
an  accomplice,  with  whom  he  often  held  secret 
meetings,  and  who,  in  an  emergency,  sent 
Michel  a  courier,  namely,  himself,  for  which 
service  ho  demanded  nothing  more  than  a  good 


THE    HOSTILE     BROTHERS. 


C5 


Trinkgeld*  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word.  He 
employed  his   secret  agents,  also,  to  induce 
people  to  make  changes  in  their  stalls,  and  thus 
he  almost  always   kept  in  his   shed,   which 
served  as  a  stable,  some  broken-down  horse, 
which  he  was  preparing  for  a  new  campaign, 
for  public  life — as  he  called  it — to  wit,  for  sale 
upon  the  market-place.      He  dyed  the   hair 
above  its  eyes,  he  filed  its  teeth,  and  although 
the  poor  beast  could  no  longer  eat  any  thing 
but  clover,  and  must  starve  over  any  other 
provender,  yet  that  gave  him  but  little  uneasi- 
ness, provided  he  succeeded  in  getting  it  off 
his  hands.     He  made  use  of  various  tricks  and 
expedients ;  for  example,  he  would  hire  an 
accomplice  to  chaffer  and  barter  with  him ; 
they  would  dispute  long  and  loud,  and  then 
Michel    would    exclaim    at   last,   "  I    cannot 
barter;  I  have  no  provender,  no  room,  and  I 
must  sell  him,  if  I  part  with  him  for  a  louis 
d'or."     Or  he  was  still  more  crafty  ;  for  a  few 
kreutzers  he  sometimes  hired  a  stupid  clown, 
gave  him  the  horse,  told  him  to  ride  on  before 
him,  and  said  to  those  whom  he  met :  "  Yonder 
goes  a  fine  horse!  if  a  good  farmer  owned  him 
he  could  fatten  him  up,  and  make  a  capital 
beast  of  him  ;  the  frame  is  there,  the  bones  are 
right,  he  wants  nothing  but  flesh,  and  then  he 
is  worth  twenty  louis  d'or."     He  thus  found  a 
customer,  agreed  upon  a  fee  for  himself  as  a 
dealer,  and  thus  sold  his  own  horse  and  re- 
ceived an  extra  profit  besides.     Michel  was  a 
sworn  enemy  to  any  thing  like  a  written  guar- 
anty, in  which  the  animal  is  warranted  free 
from  vices  and  unsoundness  ;  in  those  cases  he 
preferred  to  abate  a  few  florins  of  the  price, 
rather  than  enter  into  such  obligations ;  still 
he  was  engaged  in  many  a  law-suit,  which  eat 
up  horse  and  profit;  yet  there  was  something 
60  alluring  in  this  careless,  idle,  roving  hfe, 
that  Michel  could  never  resolve  to  give  it  up. 

Whan,  in  riding  to  market,  or  returning  home, 
he  passed  Conrad  as  he  was  busy  breaking 
stones  on  the  roads,  he  glanced  at  his  brother, 
half  scornfully,  half  in  compassion,  for  he  said 
to  himself:  "  Oh,  poor  wretch,  you  break  stone 
from  morning  until  evening,  for  fifteen  kreutz- 
ers, while  I,  when  matters  go  at  all  well,  can 
make  my  fifteen  florins !" 

Conrad,  who,  notwithstanding  his  short- 
sightedness, observed  this,  would  then  hammer 
away  at  the  stones,  so  that  the  fragments  flew 
on  all  sides. 


A' 


•  Trinkgeld,  small  fee— literally  drink-money.        \ 


But  we  will  see  who  succeeded  best,  Michel 
or  Conrad. 

Michel  was  one  of  the  most  amusing  fellows 
in  the  village,  for  he  could  relate  stories  for 
days  and  nights.  Ho  was  familiar  with  many 
tricks  and  adventures,  and  he  could  talk  of 
religion  also,  and  of  the  world.  Of  religion, 
indeed,  he  knew  but  little,  although  he  often 
went  to  church,  which  no  one  in  this  district 
can  entirely  avoid  ;  but  he  went  to  church,  like 
many  others,  without  thinking  of  his  true 
errand  there,  and  without  regulating  his  life 
according  to  the  precepts  which  he  heard  from 
the  pulpit. 

Conrad  also  had  his  fiiults,  and  the  chief 
among  them  was  his  hatred  against  his  brother, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  displayed  it. 
When  any  one  asked  him,  "  How  goes  it  with 
your  brother  Michel  ?"  he  would  invariably 
answer :  "  It  still  goes  thus ;"  while  he  made 
movements  under  his  chin  with  both  hands,  as 
if  he  was  tying  a  knot,  then  threw  out  his 
hands  on  each  side,  and  stretched  out  his 
tongue,  meaning  very  evidently,  "  he  will  yet 
come  to  the  gallows." 

As  was  natural,  this  question  was  often  asked 
him,  and  loud  shouts  followed  when  Conrad 
replied  in  his  usual  manner. 

The  villagers  fanned  the  flame  of  hatred  be- 
tween the  two  brothers  in  other  ways  also,  not 
exactly  out  of  malice,  but  because  they  found 
amusement  in  it ;  but  Michel  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders.contemptuously  when  they  spoke 
to  him  of  the  "  poor  wretch." 

The  brothers  never  remained  in  the  same- 
apartment  together;  when  they  met  in  the 
tavern,  or  at  their  sister's  house,  one  or  the 
other  at  once  withdrew. 

No  one  thought  now  of  trying  to  reconcile 
them,  and  when  two  men  lived  at  enmity  with 
one  another,  it  was  said  as  a  proverb  :  "  They 
live  like  Michel  and  Conradli." 

At  home  neither  spake  a  word  when  they 
met,  nay,  they  did  not  even  look  at  each  other. 
Still,  when  either  remarked  that  the  other  lay 
sick  in  bed,  he  would  go  to  his  sister's,  who 
lived  at  a  considerable  distance,  and  say  to  her :; 
"  Go  up,  I  think  all  is  not  right  with  him ;"  and', 
then  he  would  do  his  work  softly  and  \yithout 
noise,  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  other. 

But  out  of  the  house,  and  among  their  neigh- 
bors, they  lived  in  steadfast  enmity,  and  no- 
one  thought  that  a  spark  of  love  dwelt  within, 
their  hearts. 

This  had  lasted  for  fifteen  yeairs..    With  his- 


66 


THE    HOSTILE    BROTHERS. 


!)argains  and  barterings,  the  money  which  \ 
Michel  had  received  for  his  two  fields  had  | 
slipped,  he  knew  not  how,  through  his  fingers  ; 
but  Conrad  had  purchased  a  new  field  from  an 
emigrant,  and  liad  almost  paid  for  it.  Michel 
was  now  obliged  to  content  himself  with  help- 
ing other  people  in  their  bargains,  and  he  con- 
templated selling  another  field,  in  order  to 
obtain  capital  to  trade  upon  his  own  score. 

"  Now  there  arose  up  a  new  king  over  Egypt." 
This  verse  of  the  book  of  Exodus,  Chapter  I., 
verse  9,  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  could  now 
apply  peculiarly  to  themselves.  Their  old 
pastor  was  dead ;  he  was  a  worthy  man,  but 
he  let  matters  take  their  course.  His  suc- 
cessor was  a  zealous  young  man  ;  he  resolved 
to  set  every  thing  in  order,  and  in  many 
respects  he  was  successful,  until  his  ardor 
excited  the  opposition  of  many  of  his  flock,  and 
checked  him  in  his  course.  But  all  was  as 
yet  in  fair  progress. 

It  was  upon  a  Sunday,  after  church,  that  the 
villagers  were  seated  together  upon  the  timber 
for  the  new  engine-house,  near  the  town-hall 
brook ;  Michel  was  with  them.  He  sat  bent, 
and  biting  idly  upon  a  wisp  of  straw.  A  boy 
of  five  years,  named  Peter,  now  passed  by, 
when  one  of  the  villagers  called  the  cliild  to 
him  and  said,  feeling  in  his  pocket :  "  Look, 
Peter,  you  shall  have  four  nuts  if  you  will  do 
as  Conradli  does.  How  is  it  Conradli  does  ?" 
The  boy  shook  his  head  and  tried  to  get  away, 
fo.  he  was  a  shrewd  little  fellow,  and  he  was 
afraid  of  offending  Michel ;  but  they  held  him 
fast  and  almost  forced  liim,  and  he  at  last  imi- 
tated the  tying  of  the  knot,  the  movements  of 
the  arms,  and  the  stretching  out  of  the  tongue. 
A  burst  of  laughter  followed,  which  could  be 
heard  through  half  the  village.  When  the  boy 
demanded  the  nuts,  it  appeared  that  the  one 
who  liad  promised  them  had  none,  and  a  sec- 
ond burst  of  laughter  ensued  as  the  boy  struck 
the  man  who  had  deceived  him  with  his  feet 
and  hands. 

In  the  mean  while  the  new  pastor  had  de- 
scended the  hill  near  the  town-hall ;  he  had 
been  a  spectator  of  the  whole  scene.  As  the 
man  who  had  been  struck  was  about  to  beat 
the  boy  for  his  rudeness,  the  pastor  stepped 
quickly  forward  and  snatched  the  child  from 
his  grasp ;  all  the  peasants  at  once  arose  and 
drew  off  their  caps.  The  pastor  called  to  the 
•exton,  who  was  among  them,  walked  with 
him  through  the  village,  and  asked  for  an  ex- 
planation of  the  matter.     He  now  learned  the 


hatred  which  existed  between  these  two  bro- 
thers, of  which  the  reader  is  already  in- 
formed. 

On  the  following  Saturday,  as  Conrad  was 
breaking  stones  upon  the  road,  word  was 
brought  him  that  the  pastor  wished  to  see  him 
the  next  day  after  morning  service.  He  was 
struck  dumb  with  wonder ;  his  pipe  went  out, 
and  for  almost  a  minute  the  stone  that  lay  be- 
neath his  wooden  shoe  remained  unbroken. 
He  could  not  imagine  what  was  going  on  in 
the  parsonage,  and  would  gladly  have  run 
thither  at  once. 

The  message  was  brought  to  Michel  as  he 
was  brushing  his  horses'  "  Sunday  boots,"  as 
he  called  the  trimming  and  greasing  of  his 
hoofs.  He  whistled  the  air  of  a  coarse  song, 
but  stopped  in  the  middle  of  it,  for  he  well 
knew  what  was  in  store  for  him  on  the  mor- 
row. He  was  glad  that  he  had  time  to  prepare 
a  well-seasoned  reply  to  the  sermon  which  he 
expected,  and  muttered  a  few  sentences  of  it 
softly  to  himself. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  pastor  preached 
from  the  first  verse  of  Psalm  cxxxiii.  :  "  Behold 
how  good  and  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brothers  to 
dwell  together  in  unity."  He  showed  bow  vain 
and  empty  is  all  happiness  upon  earth,  when 
we  cannot  enjoy  it  and  share  it  with  those  who 
have  rested  upon  the  same  maternal  bosom  witli 
ourselves.  He  showed  that  parents  could 
neither  be  happy  on  this  side,  nor  completely 
so  beyond,  the  grave  ;  when  here  below,  envy, 
hatred,  and  malice,  disunited  their  children. 
He  cited  the  example  of  Cain  and  Abel,  and 
showed  how  a  brother's  murder  was  the  first 
venomous  fruit  of  the  fall. 

All  this  and  still  more  the  pastor  uttered 
with  a  clear  and  powerful  voice,  so  that  the 
peasants,  speaking  of  it,  said  :  "  It  pierced  the 
very  walls !"  but  alas  !  it  is  often  easier  to 
pierce  walls  than  to  penetrate  the  close-locked 
breast  of  man.  Their  sister  shed  bitter  tears 
at  the  hard-heartedness  of  her  brothers,  and 
although  the  pastor  repeated  again  and  again 
that  he  did  not  refer  to  this  or  that  one,  but 
that  each  should  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart 
and  ask  himself  if  he  felt  true  love  for  his 
kindred,  yet  all  thought  to  themselves,  "  That 
is  meant  for  Michel  and  Conradli ;  that  is 
aimed  at  them." 

The  two  brothers  sat  not  far  from  each 
other  ;  Michel  bit  upon  his  cap,  which  he  held 
between  his  teeth,  but  Conrad  listened  with 
open  mouth.    As  their  eyes  met,  Michel's  cap 


THE    HOSTILE    BROTHERS. 


67 


fell  from  his  hands,  and  he  stooped  quickly  to 
raise  it. 

A  soft  and  harmonious  hymn  closed  the  ser- 
vices, but  before  the  last  notes  had  died  away, 
Michel  had  left  the  church,  and  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  parsonage.  It  was  locked,  and  he 
walked  into  the  garden ;  here  ne  mused  long 
by  the  bee-hives,  and  gazed  at  the  busy  stir  of 
these  little  insects,  ^ 

"  Who  do  not  know  what  Sunday  is," 
and  he  thought  to  himself:  "I  also  have  no 
Sunday  with  my  trade,  for  I  have  no  true 
v\'orking-day  ;''  and  he  thought  again — "  How 
many  brothers  and  sisters  dwell  together  in 
such  a  bee-hive,  and  all  work  like  the  old 
ones."  He  did  not  keep  these  thoughts  long, 
however,  but  resolved  not  to  suffer  the  pastor 
to  put  a  snaffle  on  him,  as  he  said,  and  as  he 
looked  across  to  the  graveyard,  he  thought  of 
Conrad's  last  words,  and  he  clutched  his  fists. 

On  entering  the  parsonage  he  found  the 
pastor  and  Conrad  engaged  in  earnest  conver- 
sation together.  The  former  arose ;  he  seemed 
to  have  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing  the  new 
comer.  He  offered  him  a  seat,  but  Michel, 
pointing  to  his  brother,  replied : 

"  Worthy  pastor,  I  have  all  respect  for  you, 
but  I  do  not  sit  where  he  is.  Good  sir,  you 
have  lately  come  into  our  village,  and  you  do 
not  know  what  a  liar  and  what  a  sanctimonious 
hypocrite  he  is.  All  the  children  imitate  him," 
he  continued,  grinding  his  teeth,  "  how  goes  it 
with  brother  Michel  ?"  he  then  made  the  ges- 
tures to  which  we  have  referred,  and  added, 
trembling  with  rage :  "  Worthy  pastor,  he  is 
the  cause  of  all  my  misfortunes ;  he  has  driven 
peace  from  the  house,  and  I  have  given  myself 
to  Satan  in  my  wicked  dealings.  You  have 
prophesied,"  he  cried,  rushing  towards  his 
brother — "  you  have  prophesied  that  I  should 
die  by  the  halter,  but  you  shall  be  strung  up 
the  first." 

The  pastor  suffered  the  brothers  to  give  free 
vent  to  their  rage  ;  he  availed  himself  of  his 
authority  only  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  keep 
them  from  actual  violence.  He  was  well 
aware  that  when  long- restrained  fury  is  once 


poured  forth,  love  then  makes  its  appearance  ; 
but  he  was  almost  in  error. 

At  last  the  two  brothers  sat  silent,  breathing 
heavily,  but  neither  stirred.  The  pastor  now 
spoke,  at  first  with  a  low,  soft;  voice ;  he 
opened  all  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  heart — 
il  was  of  no  avail ;  the  two  kept  their  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  ground.  The  pastor  then 
described  the  sorrow  of  their  parents  in  the  other 
world — Conrad  sighed,  but  did  not  look  up. 
The  good  man  now  exerted  all  his  pow-ers; 
his  voice  sounded  like  that  of  a  rebuking 
prophet.  He  represented  them  as  appearing 
before  the  tribunal  of  the  last  judgment,  and 
listening  to  the  fearful  sentence  :  "  Woe ! 
woe  !  woe  !  you  have  lived  in  hatred  and  hard- 
ness of  heart  together,  you  have  severed  the 
bands  of  brotherly  love — go  hence,  to  pine, 
chained  together  during  an  eternity  of  tor- 
ment !" 

All  were  .silent ;  Conrad  wiped  away  the 
tears  with  his  coat-sleeve,  then  rose,  and  said, 
'« Michel !" 

So  many  years  had  passed  since  Michel  had 
heard  this  sound,  tliat  he  looked  up  suddenly, 
and  Conrad  stepped  nearer  and  said :  "  Michel, 
forgive  me  !"  The  hands'  of  the  brothers  were 
clasped  together,  and  the  pastor's  hand  rested 
upon  theirs,  as  if  in  benediction. 

All  in  the  village  looked  up  and  smiled  as 
they  saw  Michel  and  Conradii  walk  hand  in 
hand  down  the  hill  by  the  town-hall. 

They  did  not  loose  their  clasp  until  they 
reached  their  home ;  it  seemed  as  if  they 
wished  to  indemnify  themselves  for  the  priva- 
tions of  the  past.  On  entering  their  little 
dwelling,  they  quickly  removed  all  the  padlocks, 
-  then  went  into  the  garden  and  pulled  down  the 
hedge ;  notwithstanding  the  loss  of  their  cab- 
bages, this  sign  of  enmity  must  be  destroyed. 

They  then  went  to  their  sister's,  and  all  ate 
together  at  the  same  table. 

In  the  afternoon  the  two  brothers  sat  to- 
gether in  the  church,  and  each  held  a  comer 
of  their  mother's  hymn-book  in  his  hand. 

Their  whole  life  became  henceforth  a  new 
one. 


68 


HENRY    NELSON. 


HMmy   ]MIL^§(Dlf, 


BY    PHILIP    PHILLIPS,    ESQ. 


No  class  of  men  have  the  opportunities  of 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  hearts  of  their 
fellow-men  that  are  continually  within  the  reach 
of  lawyers.  The  profession  is  little  understood 
by  those  whose  experience  in  it  has  not  been  a 
practical  one;  and  it  is  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  before  the  minds  of  readers  the  fact 
that  this  is  a  responsible  profession,  in  a  great- 
er degree  than  is  ordinarily  supposed,  that  I  am 
induced  to  undertake  the  task  I  now  commence. 
The  romances  of  real  life  that  may  be  found  in 
the  diary  of  any  member  of  the  profession  in 
only  ordinary  practice,  are  enough  to  stock  the 
brains  of  a  dozen  modern  novel  writers,  and 
supply  the  world  with  light  reading  foran  age. 
Romances,  said  I  ?  I  have  but  to  open  my  own 
note-book,  and  I  find  the  truths  of  life.  Aye, 
here  are  records  of  joys  and  sorrows,  of  smiles 
and  tears,  of  hopes  and  realizations  glad  and 
gloriou.s,  of  yearning,  bleeding,  breaking, 
broken  hearts,  and  deep,  deep  graves  of 
loves  that  sparkled  In  the  light  of  hope 
once  but  now  faded  from  this  weary  earth.  Oh, 
the  graves  of  the  loving  and  the  loved  are 
all  over  the  earth,  and  the  rest  of  the  forgotten 
is  undisturbed,  while  tale-tellers  rack  their 
brains  to  devise  histories  not  half  so  strange  as 
the  stories  of  those  that  sleep  in  any  graveyard 
in  the  land.  I  open  my  book  at  a  venture.  Ah! 
this  note  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  my  friend 
and  fellow-student  in  Princeton.  Times  have 
changed  since  our  old  college  days,  but  he  is 
unchanged.  I  shall  begin  at  the  beginning  of 
the  narrative,  as  I  have  learned  it  from  him  and 
from  others,  and  as  briefly  as  may  bo,  trace  the 
life  of  my  quondam  chum,  Harry  Nelson. 

In  the  eastern  slope  of  the mountaiii 

is  a  gorge  or  ravine,  through  which  runs  a  clear 
brook,  giving  out  a  merry  voice  continually. 
At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  the  ravine  widens 
into  a  smooth  field,  across  which  the  stream 
flows  slowly.  In  the  summer  of  1820,  a  cot- 
tage stood  on  the  bank  of  this  stream,  in  which 
resided  a  widow  and  her  son — a  boy  of  twelve 
at  the  date  of  the  commencement  of  this  his- 
tory. Their  story  none  knew,  except  that  ihey 
had  come  there  six  years  previously,  and  the 
widow  had  bought  the  cottage,  where  she  still 


lived.     Judge  Pierson,  of  S ,  supplied  her 

with  money,  which  she  had  placed  in  his  hands. 
The  cottage  vv;ts  silent  now.  All  day  lontr 
the  widow  had  lain  awaiting  death.  Night 
came,  and  the  light  of  life  had  not  wholly  flided 
from  the  eye  of  the  mother;  and  her  boy 
still  lay  on  the  bed,  with  his  tiny  hand  grasping 
hers  in  the  agony  of  fear.  A  bitter  agony  is 
that,  when  the  loving  and  the  loved  are  leaving 
us,  to  return  no  more  forever ! 

The  night,  which  had  been  cloudy  and  sultry 
at  the  commencement,  grew  black  and  tempes- 
tuous, and  ever  and  anon  a  flash  of  wild  light 
from  a  distant  thunder-cloud  lit  the  mountain 
side,  and  showed  the  ragged  peak  against  the 
gloomy  covering  of  the  sky.  Shortly  the  tem- 
pest, which  had  seemed  to  bo  gathering  strength 
and  lingering  until  it  had  grown  miglity,  sv.-ept 
down  the  gorge,  and  moaned  around  the  little 
cottage  in  the  glen.  The  mountain  trees  shook 
in  the  wind  and  nodded  their  giant  heads  one 
to  another,  and  the  wail  of  the  storm  that  began 
from  afar  like  the  wail  of  a  desolate  child, 
came  creeping  down  towards  the  cottage  in  the 
glen,  till  the  whole  dell  rang  with  the  mournful 
shriek,  as  if  it  was  the  shriek  of  angels  foiling 
from  their  birth-place.  The  lightning  grew 
frequent  and  vivid,  until  the  whole  scene  was 
illuminated  by  a  fearful  succession  of  flashes 
that  totally  put  to  nought  the  feeble  flame  of 
the  candle  on  the  little  table  by  the  window ; 
and  yet  the  mother  and  the  boy,  heedless  of  the 
rolling  thunder  that  shook  the  mountain's  foun- 
dation, heedless  of  the  crash  of  falling  trees, 
and  the  wild  cry  of  the  tempest,  lay  silent  on 
the  bed,  and  the  storm  passed  on. 

It  was  midnight.  Faraway  in  the  cast  lay  I 
black  bank  of  clouds,  over  the  top  of  which  or 
star,  bright  as  a  diamond  on  a  queen's  forehead 
shone,  with  calm,  holy  rays,  silvering  the  edge 
with  a  fringe  of  light,  peering  into  the  windov 
of  the  widow's  cottage,  and  falling  on  the  fore- 
head of  the  dying  woman  with  an  angel  kiss. 

"Open  the  door,  my  son  ;  I  grow  f^tifled  in 
this  air!" 

Ho  rose  and  opened  the  door,  and  the  cool, 
pure  air  came  in  and  fanned  the  face  of  the 
sick  mother,  so  that  she  revived,  and  calling 


HENRY     NELSON 


69 


him  to  her  side,  spoke  in  low,  earnest  tones, 
wliile  ihc  boy  stood  by  her  bedside  : 

"  You  will  be  alone  soon,  Harry  '.—all  alone 
in  this  wide  world !  You  have  been  told  what 
to  do  with  the  contents  of  the  cottage,  and  I 
need  not  tell  you  again.  You  will  find  in  that 
bo.x  yonder  a  paper,  directing  you  what  to  do 
when  I  am  dead.  In  the  hands  of  Judge  Pier- 
son  you  will  find  a  sura  of  money  secured  to 
you  when  you  come  of  age,  till  which  time  the 
income,  small  though  it  be,  will  assist  you.  It 
was  mine  during  life,  and  when  I  am  dead  will 
be  yours.  Again,  my  son,  let  me  warn  you  to  be 
true  to  the  principles  I  have  made  your  guide. 
You  have  your  Bible  and  your  God ;  the  last, 
the  God  of  your  father  and  your  mother.  Your 
father !  I  must  speak  of  him  now.  I  have 
never  shown  you  this  miniature.  Take  it.  I 
sold  the  gorgeous  casing  in  which  it  was  once 
set,  and  had  this  plain  one  fitted  to  it.  Your 
father  was  wealthy  once.  But  that  matters  not 
now.  Enough  for  you  to  know,  that  he  was 
one  you  need  not  bo  ashamed  to  think  of.  He 
is  dead,  and  I  shall  meet  him  soon.'' 

She  paused,  and  seemed  in  deep  thought,  then 
spoke  again ;  but  her  voice  was  fainter  than  be- 
fore, and  scarcely  audible : 

"  It  was  strange,  very  strange.  He  must 
have  died  alone  in  the  forest !  How  changed  '. 
Those  were  bright  days  in  old  Ireland.  Dear 
old  Ireland.  Harry,  go  and  sit  by  the  door,  and 
tell  me  when  the  moon  is  rising." 

A  half  hour  passed  in  silence,  but  the 
mother  prayed.  Anon  she  turned  restlessly, 
and  looked  at  her  boy,  and  said :  "  Harry,  sing 
me  a  song  of  Ireland — that  song  I  taught  you 
by  the  streamside  in  the  glen,  last  summer." 

The  moon  was  just  below  the  verge  of  the 
horizon ;  and  the  clouds,  which  had  gone  to- 
wards the  north-east,  left  a  single  faint  line  of 
silver  lying  over  the  hill  from  behind  which  she 
was  coming.  The  boy  raised  his  clear  voice 
in  the  solemn  starlight,  and  sang  a  song  of 
Ireland.  It  floated  out  on  the  night-air,  and  the 
angels  heard  it :  and  the  mother  listened,  and 
her  heart  sprang  back  to  the  olden  time  when 
she  was  young,  and  heard  another's  voice 
sing  that  song  in  her  ear — and  her  cheek 
lay  on  his  shoulder;  and  thus  in  the  quick 
thiobbing  of  her  pulse  she  remembered  the 
golden  past,  and  then  her  breast  was  still.  She 
was  dead.  The  boy  sang  on.  When  he  had 
finished  he  sat  long  and  earnestly  looking  up  at 
the  holy  watchers,  then  turned  to  his  mother's 

Iside,  and  spoke;  and  when  she  answered 


not  he  saw  that  she  was  dead,  and  threw  him- 
self beside  her  and  wept  till  morning.  A 
traveller  found  him  lying  on  his  face  beside 
her.  A  holy  smile  was  on  her  lip,  and  was 
there  too  when  they  buried  her. 

I  have  given  the  particulars  of  this  scene, 
inasmuch  as  they  are  important  to  the  chain  of 
evidence  which  was  afterwards  made  up — as 
will  appear  in  our  history. 

It  was  seven  years  after  this  that  1  first  met 
Henry  Nelson,  the  boy  of  the  Glen  Cottage. 
He  entered  the  Sophomore  class  while  I  was  a 
Junior ;  and  an  acquaintance  accidentally  com- 
menced, was  continued  until  we  became  inti- 
mate friends.  I  have  never  known  a  kinder  and 
a  truer  heart.  A  universal  favorite,  he  led  his 
class  without  difficulty  ;  and  at  the  close  of  his 
course  I  returned  to  hear  him  deliver  his  vale- 
dictory ;  an  honor  he  fixed  his  eye  on  in  pre- 
ference to  the  Latin  salutatorj',  which,  in  P , 

has  always  been  the  prize  of  scholarship. 

While  in  college  I  had  noticed  a  peculiar 
disposition  in  Nelson  to  think  sadly.  There 
was  a  look  of  earnestness  about  his  eye  when 
he  heard  any  moving  story  of  sorrow,  and  a 
fondness  for  pathos  in  his  reading,  and  in  his 
own  productions,  that  led  me  to  inquire  for,  and 
obtain  the  history  I  have  given  above.  To  this 
was  added  another  however,  which  was  simply 
this : — He  loved,  and  with  no  idle  love,  tlie 
daughter  of  Judge  Pierson,  who  held  the  small 
property  which  his  mother's  will  had  left  to 
him.  The  income  from  this  property  amount- 
ed to  about  tliree  hundred  dollars  a  year,  which 
was  regularly  paid  him,  and  which  he  had 
devoted  sedulously  to  his  education.  But  Judge 
Pierson  was  an  aristocrat  of  the  straitest  sect, 
and  the  nameless  son  of  the  widow  was  no 
match  for  his  beautiful  daughter.  They  cor- 
responded, however,  through  the  assistance 
of  a  brother  of  the  lady ;  and  when  Harry 
graduated,  the  father,  supposing  all  danger 
at  an  end,  consented  that  Fred  and  Ellen 
should  attend  Commencement  at  Princeton.  I 
remember  the  scene  well.  How  beautifully 
she  appeared  in  the  gallery,  and  how  lier  eye 
dimmed  at  the  inimitable  pathos  of  that  last 
appeal  of  the  student  to  his  brethren.  Harry's 
face  was  pale,  and  contrasted  with  his  black 
gown  so  as  to  make  it  more  so.  As  he  com- 
menced it  began  to  be  whispered  about  that  he 
was  the  lover  of  the  fair  girl  in  the  gallery, 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  her.  She 
saw  none  of  it,  however,  but  shaded  her  face 
with  her  hand,  and  Ustened  eagerly  to  every 


70 


HENRY     NELSON. 


word;  and  when  at  last  he  paused  in  the 
midst  of  his  adieu,  and  with  choked  voice 
exclaimed,  "  Good  bye,  God  bless  you  all,  good 
bye  !"  and  reached  out  both  his  liands  to  grasp 
the  many  that  were  extended  to  him,  I  heard 
her  sob  aloud. 

There  was  another  and  a  sadder  scene  under 
the  stars  that  night.  I  had  my  horses  with  me, 
and  while  the  gay  and  mirth-loving  were  in  the 
ball-room,  I  took  Fred,  and  Ellen,  and  Harry, 
and  drove  out  on  the  Trenton  road  towards 
the  old  Quaker  meeting-house,  a  place  not  to 
be  forgotten  by  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful 
in  old  Nassau.  On  the  bank  of  the  stream, 
in  the  calm  night,  they  talked  of  the  future. 
Fred  and  myself  strolled  away.  When  we  re- 
turned she  was  weeping  ;  and  he  held  her 
hand,  and  looked  in  her  face. 

"  I  have  been  telling  her,  Phil,  that  I  am 
poor,  and  a  wanderer ;  and  her  father  says  she 
must  not  love  me,  and  she  may  marry  a  wealthy 
man,  and  be  happier  than  with  me.  In  duty 
to  her  father  I  tell  her  thus  much,  and  in  duty 
to  myself  I  tell  her  that  I  love  her.  She  will 
not  hear  any  of  my  story  but  the  last.  What 
shall  I  do  ?  I  am  literally  homeless  now,  and 
nameless.  I  am,  as  you  know,  satisfied  that  it 
is  my  duty  to  enter  the  ministry ;  her  father 
would  never  hear  of  her  marrying  me,  a  poor 
clergyman.     What  can  I  say  to  her  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his ;  and,  as  he 
paused,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  smile  of  irresis- 
tible beauty,  "  Where  thou  goest  I  will  go  !" 
It  was  impossible  to  doubt  her  holy  love,  or 
withstand  that  smile. 

"  We  must  wait  awhile,  Ellen." 

"  Years — I  care  not  how  long.  I  will  love 
none  else  but  you ;  I  can  love  no  other.  Why 
ask  me  to  forget  you  ?"  • 

"  So  be  it." 

A  party  of  revellers  interrupted  us,  and  we 
drove  back  to  the  village.  Three  years  after 
this  Judge  Pierson  was  dead  ;  having  left  a 
will,  in  which  his  daughter  received  a  fortune  if 
she  should  not  marry  Henry  Nelson  :  if  she  did, 
his  whole  fortune  was  to  go  to  Fred,  his  otiier 
child,  provided  he  retained  it  in  its  form  of  real 
estate  for  ten  years,  and  did  not  make  over  any 
part  whatever  thereof,  or  give  any  assistance  to 
Ellen.  If  he  gave  any  help  to  her,  the  fortune 
was  to  go  to  the  next  heir-at-law  ;  who  was  to 
recover  the  same  on  proving  the  fact  of  such 
help  having  been  given.  This  heir-at-law, 
however,  was  not  named ;  and  on  this  fact 
hangs  the  story. 


1 


True  to  her  own  heart,  Ellen  married  Nel- 
son. He  was  settled  as  pastor  of  a  small  con- 
gregation in  the  northern  part  of  Illinois, 
where  he  had  gone  of  his  own  choice  to  preach 
the  words  of  truth.  She  made  a  lovely  woman, 
and  as  the  wife  of  the  missionary,  was  inde- 
fatigable. They  lived  a  happy,  though  labori- 
ous life,  and  in  frequent  letters  from  Henry  I 
learned  that  his  soul  was  strong  and  his  hope 
growing  brighter  and  brighter,  as  he  fixed  his 
eye  on  the  far  world  beyond  the  river  of  death. 

So  we  went  on  our  walks  in  life.  I  entered 
my  profession,  and  he  was  my  counsellor  and 
friend,  and  in  his  home  I  found  a  welcome  often 
when  weary  of  the  world. 

I  was  one  day  engaged  in  overhauling  some 
papers  which  I  had  received  from  Ireland — ex- 
tracts from  parish  registries  and  such  affairs, 
which  were  to  be  used  in  a  partition  suit,  then 
pending  in  the  court  of  chancery  in  this  State 
and  circuit — when  I  was  struck  by  the  occur- 
rence of  the  name  of  Nelson  in  some  of  the 
papers,  and  especially  with  the  following  note, 
made  by  the  copying  clerk : 

"  Henry  Nelson  married  Harriet  Wilson,  and 
left  this  country  in  1812.     He  has  not  been 

heard  of  since.     He  sailed  in  the  ship . 

He  left  a  small  property,  which  Mrs.  Nelson 
converted  into  money,  and  taking  her  boy  with 
her,  departed  for  America.  It  is  supposed  that  all 
are  dead,  as  their  friends  never  heard  of  them 
again.  It  will  be  seen,  however,  that  if  living, 
they  would  take  precedence,  &c.,  &c." 

I  wrote  immediately  to  Harry,  and  asked  him 
for  all  the  evidence  he  had  of  his  ancestry. 
He  replied,  giving  me  the  particulars  of  his 
mother's  death,  and  enclosing  some  papers 
found  in  her  cottage  after  her  decease.  I 
wrote  to  Ireland  again  for  all  the  information 
that  could  be  obtained,  and  received  in  return 
a  certificate  of  the  marriage  of  Henry  Nelson 
and  Harriet  Wilson,  a  certificate  of  the  bap- 
tism of  their  child,  and  also  a  certificate  of  the 
marriage  of  George  Wilson,  colonel  in  the 
British  army,  to  Emma  Pierson,  daughter  of 
Joseph  Pierson  of  New  York,  which  last  person 
was  flie  motiicr  of  Harriet  Wilson. 

I  found  the  registry  of  the  ship's  arrival  in 
this  country  which  brought  the  mother  and  her 
boy,  and  finding  it  I  also  found  the  captain,  an 
old  sailor,  who  had  retired  with  a  handsome 
fortune.  He  remembered  them  well,  and  re- 
membered a  mark  on  the  arm  of  tlie  boy,  which 
was  on  the  arm  of  my  friend,  as  I  knew  right 
well. 


SUMMER  MOONLIGHT  HOUR, 


71 


It  is  not  necessary  that  I  go  into  a  detail  of 
the  mass  of  evidence  which  was  collected. 
The  most  important  point,  and  that  which 
•tartled  me  as  well  as  all  others  engaged  in 
the  matter,  was  that  the  Colonel  Pierson,  the 
father  of  Mrs.  Nelson,  was  shown  to  be  the 
uncle  of  Judge  Pierson,  the  father  of  Ellen — 
and  the  nearest  heir-at-law  of  the  judge,  next 
to  his  son,  was  none  other  than  the  son  of  Har- 
riet Nelson,  my  chum  and  friend. 

Until  this  point  was  reached  I  had  not  spoken  i 
to  Harry  on  tlie  subject,  except  as  I  have  stated  | 
by  asking  for  his  means  of  information,  and  < 
then  I  only  intimated  that  he  had  better  let  me  ? 
possess  the  facts  in  the  case,  as  they  might  be    5 


of  use  to  him  at  some  future  day.  I  now  wrote 
to  him,  requesting  him  to  come  east,  and  bring 
on  Ellen  with  him.  He  came.  The  miniature  of 
his  father  was  produced,  and  the  likeness  to  the 
father  of  Judge  Pierson  was  instantly  remarked 
by  old  men.  The  end  is  clearly  seen.  Fred 
Pierson  instantly  made  over  a  large  portion  of 
his  father's  estate  to  Nelson,  and  the  person  who 
had  been  supposed  to  be  the  next  heir-at-law  did 
not  see  fit  to  commence  any  proceedings  against 
the  mass  of  evidence  we  had  accumulated. 

Henry  Nelson  and  Ellen  his  wife,  are  known 
in  their  county  and  State.  Their  lives  are 
calm  and  peaceful,  spent  in  doing  and  getting 
good.     Their  tale  is  told. 


Sl^MMIiia  m(ID(DM3LI[f ISrf  ISKDWia, 


BY      EL  I  A. 


How  calm  the  silver  moonlight  falls 
On  sleeping  vale  and  hill. 

While  softly  gleam  the  angled  walls. 
With  shadows  deep'ning  still. 


And  hearts,  the  weary  and  the  worn, 
In  Life's  more  hopeful  years 

Revive,  like  drooping  flowers  upborne 
By  Night's  refreshing  tears. 


A  spell  is  on  the  summer  leaves, 
That  lulls  them  to  repose  ; 

Nor  rose-tree  climbing  to  the  eaves, 
A  dancing  shadow  throws. 


We  muse  upon  each  folly  past. 

With  tender,  deep  regret, 
And  pause  in  Life's  swift  stream  at  last, 

Its  turmoil  to  forget. 


The  bee  has  sought  her  waxen  cell, 

From  daily  toil  to  rest ; 
The  bird  forgets  his  song  to  swell. 

And  sleeps  in  airy  nest. 

A  sabbath  stillness  breathes  around. 
No  light-winged  zephyr  blows ; 

And  softly  in  the  calm  profound. 
The  stream  low  murm'ring  flows. 

Subdued  is  earthly  passion's  power ; 

The  calm  and  peaceful  breast 
Must  sympathize  at  such  an  hour, 

With  Nature's  holy  rest. 


Full  oft  some  dear  remembrance  chngs 

Around  the  tranquil  hour, 
To  thrill  the  heart's  most  tender  strings 

With  its  mysterious  power. 

Some  voice  we  miss,  whose  tender  tone 
We  never  more  may  hear — 

Some  heart  responsive  to  our  own, 
Affection  holds  most  dear. 

And  oft  as  round  our  weary  head, 
Affliction's  cloud  may  lower. 

We  feel  the  peace  around  us  shed, 
By  one  soft  moonlight  hour. 


72 


ON  THE  ADAPTATION  OF  INTELLECTUAL  EFFORTS. 


f  lEi®  sMiFiLWSMii  m  uiRmwnAm(Bm 


UPON   THE   MODE   OF   ONE'S   INTELLECTUAL   DEVELOPMENT,   AND    DIRECTION   HE 
SHOULD  GIVE  TO  HIS  MENTAL  DISCIPLINE  AND  EFFORTS. 


BY    J.    T.    HEADLEY. 


One  aspect  of  this  subject — the  adaptation 
of  one's  self  to  circumstances — may  seem,  at 
first  sight,  to  conflict  with  the  principle,  that 
one  should  consult  the  peculiar  tendencies  and 
powers  of  his  own  mind  in  his  mental  efforts. 
But  it  does  not ;  for  although  one  may  possess 
an  excellence  on  which  he  must  mainly  rely, 
yet  there  may  be  some  circumstances  calling 
forth  a  lower  order  of  powers  that  shall  exhibit 
the  mind  to  greater  advantage  from  the  very 
beauty  of  the  adaptation  itself  Besides,  the  desir- 
ed result  does  not  always  depend  on  the  weight 
of  the  given  blow,  but  on  the  direction  it  takes, 
and  the  point  of  contact.  So  the  mind  cannot 
always  produce  the  greatest  results  by  the  em- 
ployment of  its  greatest  powers.  That  de- 
pends very  much  upon  the  minds  with  which  it 
comes  in  collision,  and  the  tastes  it  has  to  en- 
cotiiuter.  When  there  is  a  broad  and  striking 
contrast  in  the  occasion,  this  rule  is  always  fol- 
lowed. No  one  would  make  the  same  address  on 
a  funeral  occasion  and  jubilee  day.  But  re- 
flective men  go  farther  and  adapt  their  efforts 
to  the  different  intellectual  capacities  of  as- 
semblies and  their  various  habits  of  feeling. 
The  necessity  of  regarding  this  variety  of 
taste  and  habits  of  thought  is  seen  by  one  who 
has  travelled  in  different  sections  of  the  world. 
The  same  speech  would  be  very  differently  es- 
timated in  this  State,  in  the  far  South,  and  in 
the  Western  States.  One  that  would  please 
the  taste  of  most  Southern  asitcmblica  would 
be  considered  too  flowery  and  ornamental  by 
an  assembly  here  ;  while  an  address  that  would 
be  regarded  liere  as  very  sound  and  logical, 


might  rock  many  a  Western  audience  to  sleep. 
Some  divines,  able  to  control  large  parishes  in 
New  England,  could  not  keep  a  Western  con- 
gregation together.  Uncultivated  countries 
naturally  draw  into  them  men  of  a  bold  and  ar- 
dent character.  T|ie  startling  appeal,  the  bold 
figure,  and  fearless  action,  correspond  to  their 
habits  of  thought  and  manner  of  living.  I 
suppose  many  a  sound  Eastern  lawyer  would 
have  been  an  unsuccessful  rival  against  Col. 
Crockett,  among  the  hitter's  constituents.  I  do 
not  introduce  this  to  show  that  one  should  as- 
sume the  bad  manners  of  others  to  move  them. 
But  to  elevate  those  whose  mental  habits  have 
been  directly  opposed  to  his  own,  to  what  he  con- 
siders correct  taste,  is  a  long  and  difficult  process, 
and  never  can  be  done  unless  he  throws  himself 
somewhat  into  the  current  of  their  thoughts 
and  feelings.  Who  would  think,  for  instance, 
of  moving  a  French  audience,  with  all  their 
ardor,  by  the  same  kind  of  eloquence  that  he 
would  the  Dutch,  their  neighbors  ;  or  address 
an  Italian  assembly,  with  their  poetic  feeling 
and  deep  sentiment,  in  the  same  strain  that  he 
would  an  English  one  ?  Similar,  tliough  not 
so  striking  contrasts,  sometimes  exist  in  towns 
that  border  on  each  other.  Daniel  O'Connell 
docs  not  harangue  in  the  same  style  in  the 
British  Parliament  that  he  does  before  iiis  Irish 
constituents.  Place  a  man  of  great  and  varied 
powers  before  a  small  audience  of  savans,  per- 
chance the  faculty  of  a  university,  and  if  he 
wishes  to  convince  them  of  some  abstract  pro- 
position, he  keeps  his  heart  as  emotionless  as 
marble — imagination  furls  her  wings  in  repose, 


ON    THE    ADAPTATION 


73 


and  naked  reason  toils  alone.  He  advances 
from  argument  to  argument  with  a  watchful- 
ness that  eludes  suspicion,  and  omitting  no  proof 
that  strengthens  his  cause,  he  presses  right  on 
to  the  point  towards  which  he  is  laboring,  till  at 
length,  with  all  the  gravity  of  a  matliematician, 
he  exclaims, "  quod  erat  demonstratum."  Place 
him  the  next  hour  as  a  political  aspirant,  in  the 
midst  of  a  motley  multitude,  and  he  that  was  a 
moment  before  allj  moderation,  suddenly  be- 
comes all  appeal  and  declamation.  The  most 
extravagant  assertions,  and  exaggerated  state- 
ments, bring  down  upon  his  head  thunders  of 
applause.  I^t  him  the  next  hour  be  transport- 
ed before  an  enlightened  audience,  and  he  one 
moment  enchains  attention  by  a  train  of  rapid 
reasoning — now  startles  with  a  sudden  flight 
of  the  imagination  and  again  delights,  by  the 
harmonious  flow  of  his  sentences.  He  receives 
the  admiration  of  all  by  adapting  himself  at 
times  to  each.  I  do  not  suppose  that  minds 
usually  possess  such  varied  powers,  but  the 
fact  is  a  forcible  illustration  of  the  principle  of 
adaptation,  on  which  those  act  who  seek  to 
influence  others,  and  which  must  control  more 
or  less  every  one  who  would  directly  benefit 
any.  Men  study  well  the  rules  of  the  schools, 
but  very  defectively  that  strange  and  restless 
thing,  the  human  heart. 

This  principle  operates  so  extensively  that 
what  would  be  considered  violent  declamation 
in  some  circumstances  would  be  the  truest  elo- 
quence in  others.  Take,  as  an  illustration, 
the  speech  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  puts  in  the 
mouth  of  Ephraim  iMcBriar,  when  addressing 
the  Covenanters  after  a  successful  battle.  It 
exhibits  his  wonderful  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart.  The  Covenanters  had  been  driven  from 
their  homes  and  altars  by  tlie  merciless  Claver- 
house  and  his  followers,  till  at  length,  hunted 
even  among  the  hills  and  caverns,  and  driven 
to  despair,  they  turned  at  bay,  and  falling  on 
their  pursuers,  repulsed  them  with  great  slaugh- 
ter, leaving  the  field  covered  with  the  slain. 
As  the  last  shout  of  battle  died  away  on  the 
mountain  air,  with  their  brows  yet  unbent  from 
the  stern  conflict,  and  their  hands  crimson  with 
the  blood  of  their  foes,  they  gathered  together 
on  the  field  of  death,  and  demanded  a  sermon 
from  one  of  their  preachers.  Amid  the  silent 
dead,  encompassed  by  the  everlasting  hills,  be- 
neath the  open  sky,  those  stern  and  fiery-heart- 
ed men  stood  and  listened.  A  young  man, 
scarce  twenty  years  of  age,  arose,  pale  from 
watching,  fasts,  and   long  imprisonment — the 


hectic  flush  on  his  cheek  writing  his  early 
doom.  But  as  he  stood,  and  cast  his  faded  eye 
over  the  multitude  and  over  the  scene  of  battle, 
his  cheek  burned  with  a  sudden  glow,  and  a 
smile  of  triumph  played  around  his  lips.  His 
voice  at  first  faint  and  low,  was  scarce  heard 
by  the  immense  multitude,  but  gathering 
strength  and  volume  from  his  increasing  emo- 
tion, its  clear  and  startling  tones  fell  at  length 
like  a  trumpet-call  on  the  ears  of  the  throng. 
He  wished  to  nerve  them  to  sterner  conflicts, 
and  urge  them  on  to  new  victories,  and  what 
should  be  the  character  of  his  address  ?  Should 
he  attempt  to  convince  those  wronged  and 
hunted  men  of  the  righteousness  of  their 
cause  ?  From  history  and  law  should  he 
calmly  prove  the  right  of  defending  themselves 
against  the  oppressor  ?  No ;  such  argument 
would  have  been  tame  amid  the  stormy  feel- 
ings that  agitated  their  bosoms.  He  at  first 
awoke  indignation  by  describing  their  outraged 
altars  and  violated  homes.  He  spoke  of  the 
Church,  compared  her  to  Hagar,  watching  the 
waning  hfe  of  her  infant  in  the  desert — to  Ra- 
chel, mourning  for  her  children  and  refusing 
to  be  comforted  ;  then  suddenly  taking  fire  at 
the  wrongs  in  which  he  felt  a  common  interest, 
he  bursts  forth :  "  Your  garments  are  stained, 
but  not  with  the  blood  of  beasts — your  swords 
are  filled  with  blood,  but  not  of  bullocks  or 
goats  ;  neither  are  these  wild  hills  around  you 
a  sanctuary  planked  with  cedar  and  plated  with 
silver;  nor  are  ye  ministering  priests  at  the 
altar,  with  censers  and  torches  ;  but  these  are 
the  corpses  of  men  who  rode  to  battle — ^these 
hills  are  your  altars,  and  your  own  good  swords 
the  instruments  of  sacrifice  ;  wherefore  turn 
not  back  from  the  slaughter  on  which  ye  have 
entered,  like  the  worthies  of  old ;  but  let  every 
man's  hand  be  like  the  hand  of  the  mighty 
Samson,  and  every  man's  sword  like  that  of 
Gideon,  which  turned  not  back  from  the 
slaughter  ;  for  the  banners  of  the  Reformation 
are  spread  abroad  on  the  mountains  in  their 
first  loveliness,  and  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not 
prevail  against  it."  In  this  wild  and  enthusi- 
astic manner  he  continued,  till  at  his  single 
bidding  those  iron-hearted  men  would  have 
"  rushed  to  battle  as  to  a  banquet,  and  embraced 
death  with  rapture."  I  do  not  speak  of  the 
moral  character  of  such  an  appeal,  but  of  its 
adaptedness  to  produce  the  effect  he  desired, 
and  to  establish  the  fact  that  cveu  declamation 
may  become  eloqueuce,  and  argument  be  equiv- 
alent to  nonsense.    He  wished  the  resistance 


74 


OF    INTELLECTUAL    EFFORTS. 


unto  blood  which  had  commenced  should  not 
terminate  through  hesitating  fears  and  calm  re- 
fleption.  He  wished  them  to  be  upborne  by  the 
same  lofty  enthusiasm  that  sustained  him  in 
the  perils  and  death  that  surrounded  him.  To 
effect  these  objects,  he  acted  with  consummate 
skill.  Powerful  minds  study  more  carefully 
than  we  imagine  the  principle  I  have  advanced. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  it  should  be  the  design 
of  all  intellectual  efforts  to  make  men  wiser 
and  better.  But  truth  may  be  clothed  in  gar- 
ments various  as  the  different  phases  which 
the  human  mind  assumes.  Its  illustrations 
are  as  diversified  as  the  forms  of  nature,  and 
on  the  appropriateness  of  them  its  power  and 
success  very  much  depend.  I  know  there  is 
an  objection  in  the  hearts  of  some  good  men 
against  exciting  emotion ;  they  prefer  calm, 
deliberate  reason.  But  the  danger  seems  to 
me  to  consist  in  the  means  used  to  awaken  it. 
The  feelings  are  transient,  but  the  effect  they 
work  while  in  being  may  not  be.  In  agitating 
times  men  govern  too  much  by  enlisting  the 
sympathies,  while  in  calm  and  ordinary  times 
they  entirely  neglect  it.  To  hear  some  men 
speak,  one  would  think  the  heart  was  quite  a  re- 
dundant thing,  or  at  least  very  subordinate ;  and 
thought  and  reason  alone  regal.  But  the  heart 
also  knows  how  to  play  the  despot,  and  it  is 
more  difficult  to  arouse  it  than  to  convince  the 
reason.  The  greatest  truths  in  the  universe 
are  as  clear  as  daylight  to  the  mass  of  enlight- 
ened men.  But  reason  regards  them  with  a 
cold  and  stony  eye  till  the  heart  kindles  upon 
them.  It  is  easier  to  make  the  judgment  as- 
sent than  to  awaken  emotion.  It  requires  a 
master  hand  to  sweep  successfully  that  strange 
and  delicate  instrument,  the  human  heart. 
Any  man  can  easily  learn  to  adjust  the  strings 
of  an  instrument,  and  prove  the  design  and 
propriety  of  every  part,  till  reason  is  satisfied 
with  its  construction  ;  but  it  is  quite  another 
thing  to  make  it  discourse  sweet  music,  and 
breath  forth  harmony,  to  which  the  spirit's 
harp  gives  out  a  continual  response.  As  much 
as  men  deprecate  sudden  impulses,  if  governed 
by  truth  they  often  originate  right  action  when 
nothing  else  would  do  it.  In  the  first  House 
of  Delegates,  doubt,  fear,  and  irresolution  char- 
acterized all  its  proceedings,  till  Patrick  Henry 
arose,  and  by  a  short  and  stirring  appeal, 
poured  his  determined  and  excited  soul  into 
every  bosom.  Then  the  cry  of  "  to  arms  !  to 
arniH !"  tan  liko  wild-fire  from  lip  to  lip. 
When  strong  emotion  sleeps  the  baser  pas- 


sions often  rule,  and  man's  habitual  selfishness 
becomes  the  dominant  motive.  One's  first 
thoughts  may  not  be  the  best,  yet  the  first  feel- 
ings on  good  subjects  generally  are. 

These  principles  apply  with  equal  force  to 
writers.  In  all  those  works  which  impart  the 
greatest  pleasure  we  behold  the  heart  of  the 
author  written  out.  They  all  follow  the  direc- 
tion, "  Look  into  thine  own  heart,  then  write." 
One  excels  in  description,  another  in  humor  ; 
one  in  colloquy,  another  in  discussion.  Some 
minds  work  with  greatest  power  when  thrown 
into  collision  with  other  minds,  as  steel  and 
flint  when  brought  in  contact  emit  fire. 

But  rules  are  useless  without  enthusiasm — 
they  form  the  structure  and  muscles,  but  the 
breath  of  life  is  needed.  It  is  the  great  mov- 
ing power  bestowed  on  man — it  is,  indeed,  his 
only  inspiration.  When,  under  its  influence, 
thoughts  which  reflection  never  could  have 
suggested,  come  rushing  like  angels  upon  him, 
and  visions,  gorgeous  as  the  midnight  heavens, 
and  as  real,  throng  about  him,  until  the  soul 
toils  like  a  giant  amid  the  terrible  elements  it 
has  gathered  around  it.  It  constitutes  the 
wings  of  the  soul  by  which  it  scales  heights 
mere  industry  never  could  reach.  It  is  the 
divine  afflatus,  and  when  kindled  upon  truth 
will  make  the  laggard  blood  roll  like  lava 
through  the  veins. 

An  American  once  entered  the  church  of 
Robert  Hall  when  that  eloquent  divine  was 
fast  sinking  under  the  ravages  of  disease. 
As  he  arose  and  leaned  feebly  on  the  desk, 
and  glanced  over  the  multitude,  his  eye  was 
dull  and  dead  in  its  sunken  socket,  and 
around  it  that  dark  and  sickly  hue  which  de- 
notes great  physical  exhaustion.  His  cheek 
was  hollow,  and  his  voice  low  and  scarcely 
audible.  He  proceeded  in  this  manner  for  some 
time,  when  a  sudden  flash  passed  over  his 
countenance,  lighting  the  eye  and  giving  full- 
ness to  the  cheek.  It  disappeared,  and  the  eye 
lapsed  again  into  its  dullness  and  the  features 
into  their  wan  expression.  After  a  short  inter- 
val that  sudden  glow  a  second  time  kindled  over 
his  countenance,  and  remaining  a  little  longer 
than  before  again  subsided  away.  But  the  inter- 
vals between  them  gradually  became  shorter, 
and  the  duration  of  the  excitement  longer,  till 
at  length  the  veins  swelled  to  their  utmost  full- 
ness and  remained  so — the  eye  lightened  to  its 
intcnscst  brilliancy  and  burned  on  while  thought 
after  thought,  such  as  seemed  never  to  have 
frtllcn  from  mortal  lipa  before,  poured  ovor  the 


ON    THE    ADAPTATIOX    OF    INTELLECTUAL    EFFORTS. 


75 


audience,  and  at  the  close  they  found  them- 
selves standing  erect,  gazing  up  into  the  face  of 
the  orator.  Enthusiasm  came  to  him  in  his 
weakness  like  a  good  angel,  keying  up  for  him 
the  strings  of  his  shattered  harp,  which  he 
could  not  do  for  himself — not  too  suddenly  and 
violently,  but  gradually,  till  in  perfect  tune. 
It  bade  the  player  sweep  it ;  he  obeyed,  and 
it  discoursed  sweetest  harmony.  Reason  nev- 
er could  have  strung  up  that  man's  failing  sin- 
ews so,  nor  brought  those  vivid  conceptions  to 
his  soul,  nor  poured  such  a  torrent  of  eloquence 
ftom  his  lips.  Lord  Brougham  never  exhibits 
his  great  qualities  as  an  orator,  till  he  has 
wrought  himself  into  this  overwhelming  excite- 
ment. Not  till  his  mind  seems  in  a  state  of 
fusion  are  the  red-hot  bolts  launched  from  it. 

It  was  this  that  made  Paul  appear  like  a 
minister  of  vengeance  when  he  reasoned  with 
Felix  of  the  judgment  to  come.  As  he  proceed- 
ed in  his  discourse,  and  the  scenes  of  that  terri- 
ble day  passed  before  his  vision — forgot  were  all 
— the  noble  auditory,  his  bonds,  his  coming  fate. 
That  palace  seemed  to  shrink  away  before  the 
descending  God — its  massive  walls  crumble 
before  the  archangel's  trumpet — the  throne  was 
set — the  judge  had  ascended  the  seat — before 
him  stood  tliat  terrible  throng  awaiting  their 
doom — gone  was  the  contemptuous  sneer  and 
careless  smile,  and  look  of  incredulity,  and 
when  the  fearful  speaker  closed,  the  haughty 
Felix  trembled.  Not  even  the  sneer  of  Tertul- 
lus  could  prevent  conviction. 

'•  No  orator  for  God,  or  his  country,  or  in- 
jured innocence,  was  ever  eloquent  without  en- 
thusiasm. No  poet  ever  sung  in  strains  that 
made  him  immortal,  unless  he  felt  the  spirit  of 
enthusiasm  hke  the  pressure  of  a  sensible  pre- 
sence upon  him.  No  artist  ever  made  the  can- 
vas breathe  with  power  without  it.  Nor,  without 
it,  would  have  come  those  great  conceptions, 
that  wrought  out,  made  the  dumb  marble  elo- 
quent. Some  of  the  most  gifted  have  been 
called  crazed,  till  the  groves  they  have  made 
sweet  with  their  song  are  silent  forever,  and 
the  world  learns  why  they  are  silent,  and  calls 
to  them  in  vain  to  return.  Then  the  enthusiast 
is  deified,  and  man  enacts  his  former  folly  over 
again."  Enthusiasm  forces  a  man  to  forget 
his  miserable,  selfish  schemes  and  act  from  his 
loftier  impulses.     "  The  enthusiasm  of  the  pa- 


triot is  the  self-devotion  of  Winkelried,  of  Tell, 
of  Curtius,  of  the  first  Brutus,  of  Washington. 
"  The  enthusiasm  of  the  bar  is  the  face  of 
Moses  from  the  top  of  Horeb. 

"  The  enthusiasm  of  the  pulpit  is  the  pillar 
of  fire  and  of  cloud,  the  symbol  of  joy  to  the 
Church  and  of  terror  to  its  enemies."  In  all 
trades  and  professions,  in  all  occupations  of 
whatever  character,  enthusiasm  is  the  impul- 
sive power  that  carries  one  to  eminence  in  it. 
The  ideal  perfect  which  it  ever  presents  to  the 
view,  acts  as  an  increasing  stimulus  to  urge 
him  on  to  still  greater  excellence,  till  at  length 
he  may  die  unsatisfied  but  blessing  the  world. 
A  man  cannot  have  enthusiasm  without  pos- 
sessing with  it  a  love  for  the  perfect  and  the 
beautiful  in  that  he  seeks  after.  The  concep- 
tions it  brings  to  the  mind  are  all  beyond  the 
reality.  It  hfts  the  standard  of  perfection  a 
little  higher  and  higher,  still  urging  him  on, 
while,  like  the  rainbow,  it  keeps  receding  as 
he  advances.  He  never  finds  the  spot  where 
its  light  arch 'rests  its  foot  He  can  only  gaze 
at  the  curve  as  it  bows  above  the  storm-cloud. 
It  is  to  tMs  hot  p'lrsu  t  after  perfection  we  owe 
all  that  is  ff'xnd  anc  jeautiful  in  language  or 
art  The  man  who  ooasts  of  being  no  enthu- 
siast, is  never  troubled  with  this  longing  after 
the  faultless,  and  never  seeks  it,  and  hence 
never  excels.  He  has  the  good  sense  to  be 
very  well  satisfied  with  what  he  does.  He  pities 
the  enthusiastic,  dissatisfied  lover  of  perfection, 
as  the  steady  old  dray  horse  commiserated  the 
fiery  Pegasus,  when  he  would  gall  his  breast 
with  such  fiery  leaps  against  his  harness.  If 
that  dray  horse  could  have  spoken,  he  would 
have  said,  "  Keep  cool,  Pegasus,  and  take  a 
steady  jog  like  me.  You  only  get  thumps  for 
your  pains.  Besides,  you  wear  your  strength 
out  at  tlie  start.  You  will  not  be  a  long  liver, 
I  fear,  Pegasus." 

But  the  soul  needs  excitement  to  give  it 
force.  This  enthusiasm  may  not  be  boister- 
ous, indeed  never  come  to  the  surface  at  all,  but 
calm  and  deep  burn  on  like  a  hidden  fire.  It 
matters  not,  so  that  it  only  has  an  existence. 
Under  its  influence  man  breaks  away  from 
those  petty  fears  which  cramp  thought  and  feel- 
ing, and  exhibits  that  daring  which  of  itself 
will  create  genius.  Ho  then  writes,  with  his 
own  heart  not  a  critical  audience  before  him. 


76 


RETRIBUTION. 


mifmwwfiKDM. 


A  PAGE  OF  A  PHYSICIAN'S  EXPERIENCE. 


*'  NUi  mortuis  nisi  bonum,"  was  long  ago 
exchanged  for  "  Nil  mortuis  nisi  verum," — 
"  Say  nothing  of  the  dead,  but  good,"  for  "  Say 
nothing  of  the  dead,  but — tke  truth."  The 
change  is  a  good  one,  and  the  original  must 
have  been  written  by  some  classical  rogue, 
who  was  afraid  his  misdeeds  would  be  talked 
over  when  he  was  gone. 

The  rule  supposes,  of  course,  that  something 
is  to  be  said.  It  is  very  often  the  case,  how- 
ever, that  nothing — not  even  the  truth — had 
better  be  said,  either  for  the  sak8  of  friends,  or 
society  at  large.  Let  their  character  be  buried 
with  their  bones. 

With  regard  to  the  subject  of  the  following 
sketch,  neither  of  these  considerations  operates 
to  prevent  my  writing  the  truth.  He  had  no 
friends — a  desolate  condition  even  in  this 
friendless  world — and  his  history  may  do  good, 
at  least  that  portion  which  I  write :  the  his- 
tory of  the  last  days — the  last  moments — of  a 
Usurer.  He  was  a  man  of  almost  fifty  years, 
and  lived  in  a  splendid  mansion,  in  the  most 
elevated  part  of  the  village — alone.  I  do  not 
mean  by  this  that  no  one  lived  in  the  house 
with  him ;  but  that  he  had  neither  wife  nor 
children,  nor  kin  of  any  degree.  The  only 
companion  in  the  whole  large  house  was  the 
female  servant,  who  had  always  lived  with  him, 
and  who  had  the  whole  care  of  the  establish- 
ment, if  it  could  be  called  by  that  name.  Who 
she  was,  none  knew.  She  saw  no  one ;  and 
went  out  no  where.  The  coachman  and  gar- 
dener lived  in  a  separate  house. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  S n  was 

himself  a  solitary  or  unsociable  man.  On  the 
contrary  he  saw  a  great  deal  of  company  at 
his  house ;  and  gave,  frequently,  large  dinner 
parties,  to  which  all  the  principal  gentlemen  of 
the  place  were  invited ;  and  ho  often  vieitcd 
them  in  return.  He  was  frequently  jested,  es- 
pecially by  the  ladies,  to  whom  such  jokes 
Beem  to  bo  very  natural,  on  his  being  a  bache- 
lor, and  living  alone  in  such  a  large  house  ;  but 


he  bore  their  raillery  with  the  most  perfect 
coolness.  He  was  considered  odd  in  this  re- 
spect, and  none  troubled  themselves  any  far- 
ther about  it. 

Mr.  S n  was  a  rich  man — very  rich.   He 

had  become  so  by  his  own  means,  for  he  had 
begun  life  a  poor  young  man.  He  had  made 
his  money  by  usury — and  often  of  the  most 
grinding  and  unrelenting  kind — and  this  was 
well  known  in  the  place,  but  made  no  difference 
there.  He  might  have  made  it  by  piracy  :  so 
long  as  he  remained  unconvicied  and  unhung, 
he  would  be  respected,  if  he  were  rich.  He 
followed  the  same  practice  still,  and  seized 
every  opportunity  for  making  money  as  greedi- 
ly as  when  he  first  began  life  in  poverty.  He 
-occupied  a  seat  in  church  every  Sunday,  as 
regularly  as  the  most  devout ;  and  in  quite  ad- 
vanced life  was  received  into  the  communion  of 
the  Church. 

Yet,  unpleasant  and  repulsive  as  such  a 
character  ought  to  be  to  every  mind  of  truly 
noblfe  and  manly  feelings,  I  must  still  say,  that 

Mr.  S n  had  many  good  traits.     He  was  a 

gentleman,  and  what  is  generally  called  a  very 
clever  fellow.  I  have  spent  hours  in  his  com- 
pany, and  found  him  a  very  entertaining  man. 

I  have  felt  it  necessary  to  say  so  much  of  the 

general  character  of  Mr.  S n  in  order  to 

prepare  the  reader  for  what  follows.  God  for- 
bid that  any  of  my  readers  should  die  his 
death.  I  wish  I  could  relate  it  in  connection 
with  the  death-bed  scenes  of  another  character, 
which  took  place  about  the  same  time.  But  I 
must  give  them  separately  ;  and  his,  first. 

I  was  sitting  down  to  dinner,  when  a  mes- 
senger arrived,  summoning  me  hastily  to  tlie 

house  of  Mr.  S n.      Of  the  cause  of  the 

Buiuinons  he  knew  nothing.  He  only  knew 
that  ho  was  to  ask  me  to  come  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  if  1  were  not  at  home,  he  was  to 

go  after  Dr.  M .     \  did  not  wait  to  swallow 

a  morsel,  but  hastily  obeyed  the  call.  I  enter- 
ed the  house  in  less  than  five  minutes   from 


RETRIBUTION. 


77 


leaving  my  own  door.  The  single  female  ser- 
vant met  me  at  the  door,  with  a  strange  expres- 
sion of  distress  on  her  face ;  and,  with  a  ges- 
ture towards  the  stairs,  and  only  the  words, 
"  up  there,"  she  disappeared  into  one  of  the 
low^er  rooms.  ♦ 

Not  a  little  surprised,  and  perhaps  alarmed  at 
this  mute  demonstration,  I  ascended  the  first 
flight  of  stairs,  into  the  sleeping-room,  where  I 

found  Mr.  S n.      He  was  sitting  in  his 

large  easy  chair,  his  feet  upon  a  stool,  and 
his  back  and  head  pressed  forcibly  against  the 
back  of  the  chair.  A  hand  grasped  each  of 
tlie  arms  with  such  a  convulsive  grasp  as 
seemed  almost  to  crush  the  solid  wood.  Every 
muscle  of  his  whole  body  seemed  exerted  to 
the  utmost  tension.  His  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  the  most  unutterable  agony  and  wretch- 
edness ;  while  he  was  struggling  for  breath  as 
if  a  band  of  iron  had  been  about  his  chest,  re- 
sisting every  effort  to  inhale  the  air.  Each 
effort  was  attended  with  that  extreme  exertion 
which  was  almost  as  distressing  to  the  by- 
stander as  to  the  sufferer  himself.  He  did  not 
breathe — there  was  only  a  quick,  rapid  panting, 
like  what  is  often  seen  in  a  small  animal,  ex- 
hausted by  a  long  chase  in  very  warm  weather ; 
each  attempt  being  utterly  ineffectual  to  fill  the 
lungs.  His  countenance  was  extremely  flushed, 
the  veins  distended  and  prominent ;  his  eyes 
bloodshot,  and  almost  projecting  from  their 
sockets. 

As  I  entered  the  room  he  perceived  me,  and 
fixing  his  eye  upon  me  with  an  agonized  ex- 
pression of  anxious  inquirj',  Le  never  removed 
it  whilst  I  remained.  He  could  not  speak ;  but 
through  his  thick,  rapid  panting,  he  attempted 
to  utter  words,  which,  from  the  motion  of  his 
lips,  perhaps  aided  somewhat  by  my  fancy,  I 
translated — 

"  Doctor,  do  you  think  I  am  dying  ?" 

It  was  not  Mr.  S n,  the  calm,  gentleman- 
ly, collected  money-lender.  All  the  man 
seemed  lost,  and  sunk  in  the  overwhelming, 
cowardly  fear  of  death. 

Perceiving,  at  a  glance,  as  I  approached 
him,  that  he  had  experienced  a  severe  and  sud- 
den attack  of  congestion  of  the  lungs,  I  at- 
tempted, by  a  few  words,  to  render  him  more 
composed ;  and  then  took  a  large  quantity  of 
blood  from  his  arm.  He  was  somewhat  re- 
lieved by  the  bleeding,  and  I  left  him,  after 
having  given  directions  to  the  housekeeper  for 
his  care  till  I  should  call  again.  Upon  attempt- 
ing to  lay  him  down,  he  experienced  such  a 


degree  of  suffocation  that  I  left  him  as  I  found 
him,  in  his  easy  chair. 

3  o^lock  p.  M. — Mr.  S n  is  now  easy,  and 

has  been  asleep  for  an  hour.  I  did  not  awake 
him. 

He  continued  to  improve,  and  in  a  few  days 
was  able  to  resume  his  business. 
******* 

I  have  not  written  the  foregoing  history  of 
the  first  attack  of  a  series  which  eventually 

destroyed  Mr.  S n,  because  there  was  any 

thing  of  a  peculiarly  interesting  character 
about  it,  but  because  it  was  the  first  of  such  a 
series.  They  followed  each  other  at  various 
intervals,  the  symptoms  becoming  increasingly 
alarming,  till  the  one  in  which  he  died.  Nei- 
ther do  I  write  the  further  history  because 
there  is  any  thing  more  than  ordinary  in  any  of 
the  paroxysms,  nor  because  the  account  of  the 
progress  of  the  case  is  calculated  to  interest 
the  reader.  There  was  nothing  in  the  intel- 
lectual powers  of  the  man  to  develope  itself 
here,  and  the  narrative  of  the  disease  and  its 
treatment  could  only  interest  the  professional 
man.  But  with  the  future  course  of  his  sick- 
ness there  were  events  of  the  deepest  interest 
to  me,  and  to  the  fen  who  were  conversant 
with  them  at  the  time — events  deeply  mysteri- 
ous, and  so  full  of  crime  and  shame  as  to  drive 
from  the  bed-side  of  the  dying  man  every  sym- 
pathizing heart,  and  from  his  own  soul  every 
vestige  of  hope  beyond  the  grave.  How  full 
of  fearful  import  is  that  inspired  declaration, 
"  The  way  of  the  wickedt  He  turneth 
upside  d0\\ts." 

The  period  of  his  first  attack  was  early  in  the 
summer.  In  the  course  of  six  months  they 
followed  each  other  in-  rapid  succession,  and  it 
became  evident,  even  to  himself,  that  he  could 
not  long  survive.  But  as  the  weather  became 
colder,  his  strength  increased  and  his  constitu- 
tion seemed  to  acquire  new  vigor,  so  that  it 
seemed  almost  probable  that  he  might  survive 
the  winter,  and  perhaps  quite  recov^er.  But 
standing,  as  he  did,  with  the  finger  of  the 
Almighty  always  pointing  at  him,  he  never  lost 
sight,  for  an  instant,  of  the  truth  that  he  was  a 
dying  man,  and  he  lived  from  hour  to  hour  in 
the  most  abject  fear  of  death.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances it  seemed  wonderful  that  he  con- 
tinued to  live.     It  was  for  retribution. 

I  visited  him  almost  daily,  and  often  tried  to  of- 
fer him  consolation  in  the  hope  of  his  Christian 
profession.    But  there  was  no  comfort  for  him. 

"  No,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  I  have  no- 


78 


RETRIBUTION. 


thing,  and  can  look  for  nothing,  to  make  death 
one  ray  lighter  than  the  pit.  I  hope  !  I !  who 
have  lived  on  human  hearts — the  hearts  of 
widows  and  orphans,  and  drank  their  tears  !  I 
hope  that  there  is  any  mercy  for  me !  My 
religion  !  I  never  had  any.  I  never  knew  any 
God  but  gold,  till  now  I  first  know  him  in  his 
wrath.  Sir,  I  can  tell  you— but  no,  I  will  not 
now.  '  Give  me  something,  doctor,  of  sufficient 
power  to  make  me  sleep  to-night,  and  come  to 
me  to-morrow." 

I  complied  with  his  wish,  and  when  T  had 
seen  him  asleep  for  half  an  hour,  I  left  him. 

I  did  not  see  him  on  the  next  day  nor  the  day 
following,  owing  to  my  constant  and  unremit- 
ting care  being  necessary  at  the  bedside  of 
other  patients.  What  the  revelations  were 
which  he  designed  to  make  when  he  told  me  to 
call  on  the  following  day,  can  never  be  known. 
He  is  dead.  On  the  third  day  I  was  preparing 
to  visit  him  in  the  morning,  when  I  was  again 
summoned  to  his  bedside. 

His  attack,  at  this  time,  was  of  an  entirely 
new  character.  I  found  him  in  bed,  reduced  to 
a  state  of  extreme  weakness  by  a  sudden  and 
profuse  hemorrhage  from  the  lungs.  I  now 
recur  to  my  journal  for  the  future  history  of 
this  case,  as  I  find  it  accurately  detailed  from 
day  to  day. 

Jan.  19  tk. — Mr.  S n  has  this  day  been 

suddenly  attacked  with  a  truly  alarming  bleed- 
ing from  the  lungs.  After  doing  all  in  my 
power  to  arrest  it,  I  have  partially  succeeded, 
but  there  can  be  no  hope  for  him.  He  must  die. 
I  have  told  him  so,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  now 
fully  prepared  to  meet  it  at  any  hour.  The  in- 
telligence is  not  new  to  him,  but  being  commu- 
nicated in  connection  with  the  powerful  proof 
he  feels  in  the  profuse  loss  of  blood  and  the 
consequent  excessive  debility,  it  has  aroused  all 
his  remaining  energies,  not  to  prepare  for  it — 
not  to  meet  it  as  a  Christian,  nor  even  as  a 
man — but  to  resist  and  combat  it,  as  a  fiend 
fighting  with  a  fellow  fiend. 

"  Die !"  he  exclaimed — "  I  cannot  die — I 
will  not.  You  must  not  let  me  die,  doctor. 
You  can  save  me — I  know  you  can.  You  have 
saved  me  before — and  you  must  now.  I  am 
not  ready — ^I  cannot  be  ready.  I  shall  be 
damned  without  hope.  No — do  not  tell  me  of 
hope  There  is  none.  I  am  given  over  to  de- 
■pair.  If  God  can  forgive,  he  cannot  blot  out 
my  sins,  and  they  must  cling  to  me  forever.  I 
dare  not  die — I  dare  not." 

He  changed  his  manner,  and  continued — 


"  Come,  doctor,  tell  me  you  can  cure  me.  1 
know  you  can.  Tell  me  I  shall  get  well — that 
I  shall  not  die  yet.  I  have  so  much  to  do — give 
me  some  encouragement,  or  if  only  a  little,  say 
that  you  have  some  hope  that  I  may  possibly 
recover.  S^,  the  bleeding  has  stopped — there 
— when  I  coughed  then,  there  was  only  a  slight 
streak  of  blood  in  what  I  raised.  I  am  weak, 
to  be  sure,  but" 

Another  fit  of  coughing  here  ensued,  when 
more  than  a  "  mere  streak  of  blood"  was  seen. 
What  could  I  do  in  such  a  case  ?  It  is  one 
of  the  most  trying  in  which  the  physician  is 
ever  placed,  and  it  requires  all  his  firmness  to 
do  his  duty.  It  may  hasten  the  end  of  his 
patient's  life — it  may  produce  an  alarm  which 
may  in  an  instant  terminate  the  scene.  Yet 
can  it  ever  be  duty,  to  let  a  mortal  and  a  sin- 
ful man  go  down  to  his  grave  in  ignorance 
that  his  disease  is  a  mortal  one,  and  having  no 
preparation  to  meet  the  hour  that  appals  the 
firmest  heart — no  prej)aration  to  stand  before  his 
God  ?     It  cannot  be.     I  therefore  pressed  firmly 

upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  S n  the  fact  of  his 

extreme  danger,  and  at  the  same  time  told  him 
that  his  only  hope,  if  it  could  be  called  one, 
was  in  keeping  perfectly  quiet. 

20th. — One  of  the  most  trying  features 
in  the  hopelessness  of  this  case,  is  that  he 
has  no  friends  to  nurse  him.  Money  will 
hire  attendance,  day  and  night,  but  it  cannot 
purchase  the  tender — anxious — unwearying 
care  of  a  wife  or  sister.  There  is  no  cool 
hand  upon  the  brow,  no  careful  smoothing  down 
of  the  pillow — no  noiseless  step  about  tlie  room 
— no  eye  watching  the  least  motion  to  be  ready 
to  supply  each  want  before  it  is  spoken.  Yet 
it  does  not  seem  altogether  unfitting,  that  a  life, 
spent  in  the  sole  pursuit  of  gold,  should  be 
dependent  upon  it  for  tlie  comforts  and  conso- 
lations it  can  purchase  in  life's  last  hours. 

I  unexpectedly  found  Mr.  S n  quite  com- 
fortable in  body  this  morning,  but  his  mind  is 
keenly  alive  to  every  trying  circumstance  con- 
nected with  his  situation.  He  was  very  much 
distressed  at  his  lonely  condition,  and  asked, 
with  much  concern,  why  his  frinds  did  not  at 
least  call  to  inquire  after  him.  He  has  no 
friends.  It  is  an  unmeaning  name  to  him. 
Gold  cannot  purchase  friendship.  It  springs 
up  and  grows  spontaneously  in  llie  hearts  that 
are  fitted  for  it,  and  flourishes  there  as  a  per- 
ennial flower.  But  he  sacrificed  it  on  the  altar 
of  mammon,  with  all  the  better  and  holier  feel- 
ings of  man's  nature.     He  denied  it  a  rooting 


RETl  JBUTION. 


79 


place  in  his  boyhood,  and  his  heart  became  too 
barren  in  his  manhood  for  it  to  grow  there. 

His  little  improvement  has  awakened  hopes 
in  his  mind  which  I  dare  not  encourage.  The 
least  agitation  may  bring  on  an  instantaneous 
attack  which  would  be  fatal.  I  converse  with 
him  as  little  as  possible,  and  have  forbidden 
any  one  to  talk  with  him. 

12  o'clock. — I  found  him  very  much  excited, 
and  restless.  It  may  be  he  is  a  little  delirious, 
though  it  is  hardly  possible  in  his  case.  He 
talks  much  of  the  desertion  of  all  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  seems  deeply  wounded  with  it. 

"  Doctor,"  said  he  as  I  rose  to  come  away, 
'■  I  shall  be  well  yet — I  am  not  going  to  die 
now — I  shall  recover,  and  then  we  will  see  who 
are  the  mockers.  I  will  put  my  heel  upon 
thera  as  I  would  upon  a  worm.  I  can  do  it, 
sir — oh  !  I  can  do  it,  and  I  will.  They  have 
respected  my  wealth  as  long  as  it  would  add  to 
their  convenience,  and  they  will  do  it  again. 
And  when  once  I  gather  them  round  rae,  I  will 
use  every  means  to  fasten  them  till  I  am  ready, 
and  then" 

His  eye  burned  with  the  most  malignant 
triumph,  and  he  clenched  his  fist  tiU  the  nails 
seemed  to  cut  into  tlie  flesh.  Hypocrite!  idiot! 
fool !  I  have  never  known  a  man  more  to  be 
pitied,  and  yet  more  consummately  contempti- 
ble. I  sit  by  his  bedside,  when  I  know  that  he  is 
dying,  and  am  filled  with  the  deepest  loathing 
and  abhorrence.  He  seems  now  to  have  lost  all 
apprehension  of  deatli,  and  to  be  constantly 
occupied  in  perfecting  schemes  of  revenge. 

5  o'clock. — He  is  certainly  more  comfortable 
in  spite  of  all  his  excitement  to-day,  and  his 
hopes  of  life  are  increased.  He  is  still  engaged 
in  planning  his  means  of  vengeance. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  fear  for  yourself,  Mr. 

S n  ?"  I  inquired.     "  Are  there  none  who 

may  injure  you  as  deeply  as  yoa  meditate 
injuring  them  ?" 

The  question  seemed  to  startle  him,  and  he 
asked  what  I  meant.  I  told  him  plainly,  that 
there  were  probably  few  men  of  characters  so 
pure,  that  they  could  not  be  spotted,  and  it 
might  be  well  for  him  to  consider,  before  he 
went  farther,  whether  he  were  entirely  invul- 
nerable.   With  this  hint  I  left  him. 

•12d. — There  has  been  little  change  for  two 

days  in  the  condition  of  Mr.    S n :    no 

change  in  his  mind.  The  physician,  in  his 
round  of  duty,  is  often  obliged  to  see  much  that 
not  only  pains,  but  disgusts,  his  heart ;  and  I 
have  to  confess  that  in  the  case  now  before 


me,  I  never  enter  the  house  but  with  feelings 
of  the  deepest  abhorrence,  much  as  I  pity  the 
wretchedness  and  loneliness  of  the  man. 

I   found  by  his  bedside  this  morning,  the 

Rev.  Mr.  J ,  a  good  old  man,  and  full  of 

love  to  all  his  fellows.     He  was  striving,  as  1 

entered,  to  direct  the  mind  of  Mr.  S n  to  a 

better  train  of  feelings,  and  was  evidently  in 
profound  sorrow  at  the  state  in  which  he  found 
him.  His  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  his 
hands  clasped  in  great  earnestness,  as  he  urged 
upon  the  dark  soul  of  my  patient  the  mild  and 
refreshing  promises,  and  hopes,  and  peace  of 
the  gospel.     It  was  a  wonderful  contrast. 

"  I  am  told,  Mr.  S n,"  said  the  minister, 

as  I  was  entering  the  room — "  I  am  told  that 
yon  cannot  recover — that  your  disease  is  of 
thfit  character  that  you  must  sink  under  it,  or 
that  you  may,  suddenly,  at  any  moment,  die  in 
the  most  horrid  agony  by  suffocation.  I  speak 
thus  plainly  because  I  would  impress  upon 
your  mind  the  importance  of  preparing  your 
heart  to  stand  before  your  stern  and  unrelent- 
ing Judge.  Drop,  I  beseech  you,  these  vindic- 
tive thoughts,  and" 

The  sick  man  had  listened  thus  far  without 
moving,  but  now  rising  to  a  sitting  posture  in 
his  bed,  and  fixing  his  eye  sternly  on  the  min- 
ister, he  said,  slowly  and  calmly  : 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  believe  in  one  word  you  say. 
I  have  been  a  member  of  the  church -for  years, 
because  it  was  for  my  interest  to  be  so.  Now, 
unless  God  will  aid  me  in  my  revenge,  I  re- 
nounce my  hypocritical  profession  forever.  I 
shall  get  well,  sir,  and  I  shall  devote  the  rem- 
nant of  my  life  to  paying  the  debt  of  neglect 
and  scorn  due  to  my  fellow-men." 

He  sunk  back  in  bed,  and  the  minister,  with 

eyes  and  hands  raised  to  heaven,  said,  "  May 

God  be  merciful  to  him,"  and  rose  and  left  the 

room. 

The  angel  of  mercy  had  departed.     The  last 

appeal  had  been  made,  and  now  what  is  left  ? 
Would  that  I  never  should  be  under  the  neces- 
sity of  witnessing  such  a  case  again.  My 
very  heart  is  sick,  and  I  almost  wish,  when  I 
call  again,  to  find  him — dead. 

Midnight. — It  was  not  the  consequence  of 
my  involuntary  wish — it  was  not  the  doing  of 
man — it  was  not  the  direct  effect  of  his  disease 

but  Mr,  S n  is — dead.      It  is  relrihution 

not  the  death,  but  the  manner  of  it.     Though 

summoned  in  great  haste,  at  ten  o'clock,  he 
was  dead  before  I  reached  him — dead  by  tlie 
visitation  of  Heaven.     What  follows,  I  learn 


80 


RETRIBUTION. 


from  one  of  my  students,  a  young  man  of 
great  intelligence,  who  had  volunteered  to  take 
care  of  him  through  the  night. 

Shortly  after  I  left  the  house  in  the  after- 
noon, there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door, 
which  the  young  man  himself  opened.  A  wo- 
man of  about  tive-and-thirty  years,  attended 
by  a  girl  of  perhaps  sixteen,  inquired  for  Mr. 
S n.  Both  were  persons  of  plain  appear- 
ance, though  well  dressed,  and  seemed,  by 
their  manner,  to  belong  to  the  higher  walks  of 
life.  But  the  elder  one,  especially,  though  she 
had  a  look  of  sadness  in  her  countenance,  was 
still  a  woman  of  surpassing  beauty  and  grace. 
She  walked  directly  in,  and   upon  being  told 

that  Mr.  S n  was  just  fallen  asleep,  and 

might  not  awake  in  some  time,  she  said  that 
she  wished  to  see  him  and  would  sit  till  lie 
awoke. 

"  I  have  learned,"  she  said,  "  that  he  is  very 
sick,  and  there  is  little  probability  of  his  recov- 
ery." 

"  Scarcely  any  at  all,"  the  young  man  re- 
plied.    "  Indeed  he  may  die  at  any  moment." 

"  Indeed,"  said  she,  "  so  bad  is  it  ?  The 
more  important,  then,  that  we  should  see  him. 
Be  so  good,  sir,  if  you  please,  as  to  call  me  the 
moment  he  awakes.  I  have  a  few  words  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  say  to  him." 

The  young  man  left  the  room.  The  sick 
man  did  nOt  wake  till  nearly  seven  o'clock,  and 
upon  being  told  that  a  lady  was  waiting  to  see 
him,  he  directed  her  to  be  admitted.  "  There 
is  one  then,"  said  he,  "  who  has  not  forgotten 
me." 

Forgotten  him  !  oh  no.  Through  all  the 
years  of  girlhood  and  womanhood — through 
all  the  weary  months  of  de.;ertion  and  sorrow 
— ^through  all  the  hot  and  tear-washed  footpaths 
of  lonely  and  uncheered  nursing,  and  rearing, 
and  watching,  and  guarding  the  young  years  of 
the  young  and  beautiful  girl  by  her  side — in  the 
waste  of  feeling,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  wil- 
derness that  always  springs  up  around  despised 
and  forsaken  love,  s/ie  had  never  forgotten  and 
could  never  forget  him.  Who  would  have  be- 
lieved that  the  hardened  and  scared  man  who 
now  lay  sick  in  that  house,  and  who  had  never 
been  known  to  feel  sympathy  or  sorrow  for  a 
fellow-mortal,  and  who  was  now — with  the  hand 
of  God  upon  him,  and  pressing  him  down  into 
the  very  grave's  mouth — planning  vengeance 
upon  men  because  they  had  no  sympathy  for 
him — that  that  man  had  ever  yielded  to  the 
power  of  woman's  love.    Yet  such  is  woman. 


In  our  boyhood  she  weaves  about  our  hearts 
the  chains  that  never  break.  Her  love  twines 
itself  about  all  our  better  feelings,  and  if,  in 
after  life,  we  cast  it  off  and  spurn  it  for  the 
grosser  love  of  sense,  be  sure  the  hour  will 
come  when  it  will  work  its  retribution. 

She  stood  by  his  bedside — the  same  she  had 
been  sixteen  years  before — the  same  in  all,  but 
— her  love  for  him.  And  he  looked  in  her  face, 
and  knew  her — know  for  what  she  came — and, 
in  one  moment,  an  instant,  memory  and  con- 
science travelled  back  through  those  long,  and 
to  her,  bitter  years,  and  the  hardened  man  cov- 
ered up  his  face  and  groaned  aloud,  "  Mary  !" 

"  Then  you  know  me,  George  S n,"  said 

she,  after  a  moment's  pause,  as  if  to  collect 
herself,  and  keep  down  any  of  the  tenderness 
of  years  ago,  that  might  now  be  revived  at  the 
sight  of  his  distress  and  sickness.  "  You 
know  me  then.  You  have  not  forgotten  me. 
Well,  I  am  not  much  changed,  if  I  have  suf- 
fered, since  I  was  your  '  beautiful  Mary.'  Do 
you  remember  all,  George"— — 
"  Oh,  I  do — I  do  !"  he   groaned  out,  "  yon 

need  not  tell  them-  I  remember" 

"  The  days  when  you  came  to  my  father's 
house,  a  poor  young  man — poor  as  the  mean- 
est beggar — cared  for  by  none — and  how  we 
received  you  into  the  family,  and  fed  and  cloth- 
ed you,  and  took  you  to  our  hearts,  and  when 
you  began  to  forget  what  "ou  had  been,  how 
you  looked  up  and  saw  T  was  beautiful — and 
Aggy — my  elder  and  dear  sister  Aggy — poor 
girl — do  you  remember  her  ?  I  know  you  do. 
You  shall  never  forget  her,  nor  me.  She  Is 
dead,  George— dead— in  the  cold  grave,  where 
you  will  soon  be,  if  the  earth  does  not  cas>.  you 
out,  or  refuse  to  receive  you  '  into  its  bosom.' " 
"  Dead  !"  cried  the  sick  man, "  dead  !  How 
did  she  die  ?  Tell  me  all.  Yet,  nc — I  cannot 
hear  it." 

"  But  you  must  hear  it.  It  is  for  that,  with 
other  things,  that  I  came  here  to-day.     I  have 

watched  you,  George  S n,  through  all  the 

years  of  our  separation,  and  waited  patiently 
for  this  hour,  to  tell  you  all — all  you  have  been 
to  Aggy  and  to  me.  She  died  by  her  own 
hand,  George,  the  very  nigh*  her  i,hild  was 
born — ijuur  child,  the  chud  of  her  shame  and 
your  treachery.  Yes,  let  it  cat  into  your  heart 
till  it  cankers  there,  as  it  ought,  and  take  it  in- 
to the  grave  with  you. 

"  You  remember  when  my  father  died,  after 
you  had  been  gone  from  our  house  more  than  a 
year,  that  with  all  the  confidence  of  the  unsus- 


RETRIBUTION. 


81 


pecting  heart  that  raised  you  to  what  you  were, 
he  left  our  property  in  charge  to  you,  to  pre- 
serve it  for  us.  You  know  how  well  you  did 
it.  Wretch  !  you  robbed  us  of  our  property, 
and  worse — far  worse — you  robbed  my  sister  of 
her  fair  name,  while  you  had  made  me  your  dis- 
honored wife!" 

"  It  is  false  !"  exclaimed  the  craven  wretch, 
who  was  beginning  to  collect  himself,  and  was 
now  determined  to  deny  the  whole — "  why  do 
you  not  take  the  woman  away  ?  she  will  kill 
me." 

But  she  continued  :    "  It  is  not  false,  George 

S n.    I  have  the  proof  here,  though  I  did 

not  come  to  reclaim  the  honor  of  lying  by  your 
side.  You  are  now  to  be  married  to  the  grave. 
I  am  your  wife  and  I  have  come  to  see  my 
husband  die.  Will  it  not  be  good  to  have  me 
close  your  eyes,  and  receive  your  last  breath, 
and  wipe  the  dew  from  your  forehead,  thus" — 

She  passed  her  handkerchief  over  his  brow, 
but  he  shrunk  away,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 
She  smiled  contemptuously  and  continued : 

"  George  S n,  am  I  not  your  wife  ?    Say 

it  yourself,  distinctly — am  I  not  your  wife  ? 
you  dare  not  thus  perjure  your  soul  in  this  your 
dying  hour,  for  you  are  dying,  George.  The 
damps  are  gathering  on  your  brow  this  mo- 
ment." 

"  Away,  fiend  of  hell  !"  he  exclaimed,  start- 
ing upright,  "  away — it  is  a  lie — I  am  not  dy- 
ing. You  are  all  leagued  together  to  kill  me. 
Will  no  one  take  her  away  ?" 

"  No,  George,"  she  replied,  "  none  will  take 
away  the  wife  from  the  bedside  of  her  dying 
husband.  Y'ou  know  me,  George — you  know 
that  I  was  your  wife,  but  you  do  not  know  all. 
Von  do  not  know  how  I  loved  you  when  you 
fled  and  left  me  in  dishonor,  and  my  sister  in 
lier  shame — you  do  not  know,  how,  for  years, 
I  continued  to  love  you,  and  knew  not  where  to 
find  you — how  I  nursed  my  sisters  child — your 
child — resolved  when  you  should  return  to  for- 
give all,  and  still  love  on.  And  Aggy — the 
gentle,  forgiving  girl,  she  told  me  the  very  day 
she  destroyed  herself,  that  she  forgave  you, 
and  hoped  that  we  might  be  happy  again. 

"  But  all  that  is  gone  by,  though  I  feel  like  a 
girl  again  as  I  turn  back  to  all  these  memories 
— a  girl  in  all  save  my  love  for  you.  The  time 
came  when  in  the  very  place  where  we  made 
oiir  first  vows — in  the  church  where  we  were 
married—  in  the  green  fields  where  we  used 
to  ramble  and  be  happy— -every  where  where  I 
liad  ever  been  with  you,  I  taught  my  soul  to  hate 


and  abhor  you,  and  on  my  sister's  grave  I  vowed, 
kneeling  by  her  side,  to  hate  you  till  death. 
The  sight  of  all  these  nursed  and  fed  the  new- 
born hate  in  my  soul,  but  more — oh,  immea- 
surably more  ! — the  sight  of  the  fair  young  girl 
that  grew  up  by  my  side,  with  her  mother's 
face,  but  your  traitor's  blood  in  her  veins.  And 
she — I  taught  her  to  hate  and  despise  and  curse 
her  father." 

The  sick  man  had  heard  her,  thus  far,  with 
only  an  occasional  interruption  of  passion,  but 
now  he  seemed  to  feel  his  weakness  and  the 
mastery  she  had  over  him,  and  her  words 
seemed  to  enter  like  daggers  into  his  soul. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  he  exclaimed — "  bring  her 
to  me — let  me  see  her.  I  will  do  all  I  can  to 
atone  for  my  wrong,  and  whilst  I  live,  I  will 
use  all  my  wealth  in  her  behalf.  Let  me  see 
her,  and,  Mary,  by  all  the  memories  of  the  past 
— forgive  me,  and  speak  comfort  to  me.  Do 
not  treat  me  as  the  whole  world  treats  me.  I 
am  deserted  by  all — come  to  me  once  more." 
"  Yes,  I  have  come  to  you,  but  not  to  be  as 
we  have  been.  That  could  never  be,  if  you 
had  yet  numberless  years  of  life  before  you. 
There  is  between  us  the  boundless  gulf  of 
deep  and  implacable  hate  and  contempt.  You 
are  rich — very  rich,  in  money  coined  from  my 
heart,  and  sister  Aggy's,  and  oh,  of  how  many 
others.  Your  ill-got  gold  could  never  make  us 
happy.  Yet  it  is  only  right,  since  it  cannot  be 
restored,  and  is  that  upon  which  the  world 
places  honor,  that  your  child  should  have  the 
advantage  of  it.  And  it  is  for  that,  too,  I  have 
come  to  you  in  your  dying  hour.  I  do  not  ask 
it  for  her,  because  when  you  are  dead  it  will  be 
mine,  and  I  will  give  it  to  her.  She  is  my  child 
now,  and  as  beautiful  and  loving  and  gentle  as 
her  mother. 

"  What  wonder  that  you  are  deserted — that 
you  are  left  here  to  die  alone  ?  The  traitor 
must  suffer  the  traitor's  doom.  I  am  with 
you  again — not  to  smooth  your  pillow,  but  to 
add  thorns  to  your  remorse — to  bring  to  your 
mind,  when  it  is  too  late  to  repent,  the  memory 
of  all  your  wrongs,  and  forbid  you  to  think  of 
heaven  !" 

It  was  now  that  the  man  was  unmanned. 
The  words  of  his  long-deserted  wife  harrowed 
up  his  soul.  Memory  travelled  over  all  the  past, 
and  gathered  up  stores  of  anguish.  Conscience 
was  now  wide  awake.  Revenge  was  crushed 
— every  thought  of  revenge.  The  fear  of  deatlr 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  agony  of  his  mind. 
Then  followed  a  flood  of  confessions  of  foul 


82 


RKTRlliUTION. 


crimes,  and  cruel  wrong,  enough  to  wring  the 
heart  of  any  but  his  deserted  wife.  She  sat 
unmoved  and  heard  all.  She  looked  steadily 
in  his  eye  and  saw  his  utter  despair,  and  spoke 
no  word  of  hope.  He  begged  her  to  forgive 
liim,  but  she  answered  not. 

My  young  student  who  had  been  present 
throughout  the  whole  scene,  and  had  forborne 
to  interfere,  on  account  of  his  conviction  of 
the  truth  of  the  lady's  claims,  now  inter- 
posed and  besought  her  to  retire,  lest  the  man 
should  die  at  once.  But  her  deed  was  not  yet 
completed.  She  stepped  to  the  door  and  called, 
"Aggy." 

Whether  it  was  the  memory  of  the  past,  re- 
newed with  greater  poignancy  by  the  mention 
of  that  name,  or  whether  the  sound  of  a  hasty, 
hght  step  on  the  stairs,  in  answer  to  the  call, 
gave  him  the  itlea  that  his  wife  had  deceived 
him  as  to  the  death  of  her  sister,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  tell.  The  truth  he  never  knew  himself. 
He  raised  himself  in  bed  and  looked  eagerly 
towards  the  door.  He  saw  the  very  face  of 
her  he  had  wronged  and  destroyed,  just  as  she 
had  been  in  her  girlhood,  more  than  sixteen 
years  before.  He  stretched  out  his  hands 
eagerly  and  beseechingly  to  her,  and  his  lips 
parted  as  if  to  speak,  but  instead  of  his  voice, 
there  issued  from  his  mouth  a  sudden  and 
copious  torrent  of  blood,  and  he  fell  back  in 

bed — a  corpse. 

*  ***** 

When  I  reached  the  house  shortly  after  ten 
o'clock,  no  one  was  tfeere,  but  the  young  man. 
He  related  to  me  the  above  scene,  and  said  that 
the  young  lady  seemed  to  be  greatly  affected 
by  the  result  But  the  elder  one,  stepping  to 
the  bedside  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  fore- 
head of  the  corpse,  looked  upward  and  said, 
"  TliOU  hast  avenged  her  blood  and  our  shame," 
and  taking  the  other  by  the  hand,  left  the  room 
and  the  house. 

I  directed  the  proper  persons  to  be  summon- 
ed, and  having  left  the  body  in  their  charge,  to 
be  prepared  for  burial,  I  went  home  with  a  deep 
sense  of  the  justice  of  Heaven. 

The  funeral  took  place  on  the  second  day 
following.      A  few  persons  assembled  at  the 


house,  more  from  the  habit  of  attending  such 
scenes,  than  from  any  feeling  of  friendship  for 
the  departed.  As  the  little  procession  moved 
from  the  house,  preceded  by  the  minister  and 
the  hearse,  an  open  carriage,  drawn  by  two 
beautiful  horses,  and  containing  two  females, 
took  its  position  in  the  plage  of  the  chief 
mourners.  They  were  the  wife  of  the  dead, 
and  his  daughter.  The  latter  was  closely  veil- 
ed, and  exhibited  signs  of  deep  sorrow.  But 
the  former  sat  stately  and  erect,  and  her  dark 
eye  flashed  proudly,  while  her  elegant  attire 
and  her  flaunting  plumes  spoke  plainly  the 
mockery  that  brought  her  there.  They  reach- 
ed the  grave,  and  as  the  few  followers  gather- 
ed about  it,  and  the  sexton  was  preparing  to 
deposite  the  coffin  in  it,  a  surprise  occurred. 
Suddenly  the  sides  of  the  excavation  fell  in, 
and  the  grave  was  filled  nearly  to  its  mouth. 

"Ha  !  ha !  ha  !"  scornful  and  wildly  laugh- 
ed the  long-widowed  wife,  "  I  told  him  the 
earth  would  refuse  him  a  place  in  its  bosom. 
Come,  Aggy,  let  us  go." 

She  led  the  young  lady,  unresisting,  from  the 
church-yard,  and  entering  the  carriage,  drove 
at  once  to  the  house  of  the  deceased.     She 

then   sent  for   Mr.  B ,  the   most  eminent 

lawyer  in  the  place,  and  put  into  his  hands  the 
proofs  of  her  being  the  lawful  wife  of  George 

S n.     They  were  incontestable,  and  no  will 

being  found,  she  bacame  heir  to  his  property. 
But  this  was  not  all.  In  a  few  days  she  set- 
tled upon  the  young  lady  the  greater  portion  of 
the  wealth  of  her  late  husband,  which  was 
enormous. 

From  this  time  all  was  changed  with  her. 
Satisfied  with  the  retribution  of  Heaven,  and 
afterwards  apparently  deeply  repenting  her  own 
revenge,  she  erected  a  plain,  but  costly  stone  at 
the  head  of  her  husband's  grave,  and  also 
caused  the  remains  of  her  sister  to  be  interred . 
by  his  side.  With  her  now  full-grown  and  beau- 
tiful niece,  the  care  of  her  first  lonely  years,  and 
the  pride  of  her  maturer  years,  she  is  living  in 
contentment  and  usefulness,  devoting  the  ill- 
acquired  riches  of  her  husband  to  p\irpo3es  of 
benevolence  and  charity. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE. 


83 


SI   Storj   of   t|)c   Star*. 

BY  WILLIAM  C.  PHIME. 


The  foUowio^  poem  shows  a  fine  imagination  and  abounds  in  beaotifal  passages,  bnt  the  writer  shonld  be  more  careral  of  bis 
rhythms,  and  stady  the  rules  more.  Counting  on  the  figures  is  not  a  very  elevated  employment,  bnt  it  is  better  than  defective 
measure. — Ed. 


Fading  away  in  the  far  distant  heaven 

Lay  tranquil  and  sweet  the  last  rays  of  even, 

Slowly,  slowly  they  sank  to  sleep, 

Then  in  the  blue  and  marvellous  deep 

One  by  one  the  magical  stars 

Drove  up  the  hills  their  silvery  cars — 

Their  cars  of  light  and  glory  ; 

And  then,  in  the  calm  of  the  beautiful  night 

One  told  to  the  others,  in  words  of  light 

And  love,  a  wonderful  story  ; 

And  the  others  sat  silently,  each  in  his  car, 

And  heard  the  strange  tale  of  that  beautiful  star, 

Then  pressed  their  white  steeds  up  the  heavenly  road, 

And  the  host  sang  together  the  love  of  their  God. 

How  it  filled  the  whole  heaven !     How  clearly  it  rang 

As  the  steeds  shook  their  reins  and  the  swift  horses  sprang 

Right  onward  and  upward  in  joyful  procession. 

And  sang  as  they  sang  on  the  mom  of  creation ! 


'•  In  a  calm  and  quiet  sleep. 

Where  the  starl)eams  seemed  to  keep 

Silent  vigil  holily, 

Lay  a  child  in  slumber  deep : 

Pale  was  she — 
Pale  and  lovely,  as  the  light 
Fell  upon  her  forehead  white. 

"  But  at  midnight  she  awoke. 
Smiled  a  peaceful  smile  and  spoke 
In  a  voice  so  clear  and  low. 
That  the  silence  seemed  not  broke ; 

Faint  and  slow 
From  her  hps  fell  tones  of  love. 
Such  as  angels  use  above. 


"  Come  close  to  me  mother  dear. 
Let  me  whisper  in  your  ear 
What  Pve  seen  to-night  in  dreams — 
I  saw  heaven  !     So  fair  and  clear 

Now  it  seems. 
That  my  rest  is  gone  and  I 
Must  go  hence — so  let  me  die. 

"  Angels  stood  there  in  my  sight, 
In  the  God-sight  full  and  bright. 
And  above  them  stood  the  throne. 
Ah  !  that  throne  was  pure  and  white. 

How  it  shone ! 
From  it  flowed  Life's  holy  tide — 
On  it  sat  The  Cktjcified. 


84 


CHRISTMAS    EVE. 


"  He  looked  toward  me — me,  a  child — 
Held  his  hand  to  me  and  smiled ; 
Smiled  a  godly  smile  and  spoke. 
I  so  joyful  grew,  and  wild, 

That  I  woke. 
'Twas  a  dream-path  then  I  trod, 
Now  I  go  to  be  with  God. 


"  Hush  !    No  tears,  sweet  mother  now- 
Press  your  warm  lips  on  my  brow — 
Hold  me  in  your  arms  once  more  ! 
Closer,  closer — now  I  go 

To  the  shore 
Where  falls  life's  last  murmuring  wave- 
Lay  me  gently  in  the  grave." 


I  (sang  the  star)  peered  into  the  gloom 
That  was  gathering  in  that  lonely  room, 
And  fell  with  a  holy  caress  on  the  brow 
Of  the  sleeping  child.     She  was  sleeping  now. 

And  the  stars  were  weeping !     Yea,  bowed  their  heads, 
And  the  reins  lay  loose  on  the  necks  of  their  steeds, 
As  they  heard  the  tale  of  the  maiden  that  slept. 
And  remembered  the  mother  that  waited  and  wept. 
Then  bethought  them  again  the  love  of  their  God, 
Of  Gethsemane's  tear-drops,  of  Calvary's  blood. 
And  their  anthem  of  glory  again  filled  the  sky — 
For  the  faithful  on  earth  are  the  blessed  on  high — 
And  again  they  pressed  onward  and  upward  and  far 
In  the  depths  of  the  blue,  till  the  voice  of  a  star 
Rang  out  in  the  deep  and  the  host  turned  to  hear. 


"  It  was  this  holy  night 

A  hundred  years  ago, 
I  saw  a  mother  lying  dead. 

Her  brow  was  white  as  snow. 
Upon  her  cold  breast  lay 

A  fair  and  lovely  child, 
And  as  I  kissed  the  mother's  clay 

The  boy  looked  up  and  smiled ! 

"  I  saw  that  smile  again — 

A  score  of  years  had  gone  ; 
The  mother's  dust  had  turned  to  dust- 

The  boy  was  toiling  on. 
Toiling  and  sorrowing 

He  trod  the  weary  road  ; 
He  held  a  maiden  by  the  hand. 

Their  eyes  wore  raised  to  God. 


"  Another  score  of  years — 

The  maiden's  grave  was  deep ! 
Oh,  what  a  countless  host  of  griefs, 

Old  earth,  thy  turf-mounds  keep  ! 
On  pressed  the  strong  man  still 

His  stout  heart-strings  were  riven — 
But  on  his  lip  that  smile  serene 

Sat  like  a  dream  of  heaven. 


"  The  birth-night  of  the  Lord 

Came  on  with  solemn  tread  ; 
For  fourscore  years  the  man  had  toiled, 

The  good  old  man  lay  dead. 
A  smile  was  on  his  lip  ; 

He  rests  beneath  the  sod — 
But  the  valiant  and  the  beautiful 

Have  met  before  their  God !" 


The  stars  would  have  shouted  their  anthem  aloud. 

As  they  shout  when  they  hear  of  the  mercies  of  God ; 

But  a  wail  floated  out  in  the  depths  of  the  sky. 

And  they  knelt  as  if  God  in  his  glory  passed  by» 

'Twas  the  voice  of  the  beautiful  son  of  the  mom, 

Who  shone  first  o'er  the  place  where  the  Saviour  was  bom. 


THE    WALDENSES.  35 


WAILIH^lIf^ISg. 


&«ik  M^aitted  groond.     fiat 


m 


tile  i.<e!f«sKaifJ  \  wi 
fur, 
in   J  the  ruovv  iiu  u 

'Ki    ;'    And  loTTT  r>^.r-- 


-eye  view- 


To  the  t'-'^lit,  and 

Rivoli ;  whib  to  the 

ick  of  Turin,  is  Pig- 

n.  from  which   pro- 

•to  tiw  very  heart  of 


ia  I      Turin  les  in  circnmference. 


ui,  decked 

;-e  capital,  let  us  fjo 
ncsses  of  the  WiH.';!- 
remain  the  people 
-  .    the  cornir'^'^' -i  '■*   ■ 
;3rvived  the  chax 

Ki    — /-  in-^pt-   and    c' —-' 

;ig   <  ©roers:ed  pure 


Eur 

m  h<ii  111 


THE    WALDENSES. 


85 


■fflEIIg    W-^ILIDIgM^IgS 


The  leader  looks  upon  llie  beautiful  valley 
of  Piedtnont,  the  home  of  the  persecuted 
Waldenses. 

Perhaps  there  are  no  people  so  limited  in 
number,  so  widely  known,  and  for  whom  so 
much  sympathy  has  been  expended,  as  the 
Waldenses.  Surrounded  by  a  corrupt  Church ; 
oppressed  by  the  strong  arm  of  civil  power  ; 
tortured,  hunted,  massacred,  and  driven  forth 
from  their  homes,  they  still  have  clung  to  their 
religion,  and  remained  true  to  their  principles. 
Now  suffering,  without  a  murmur,  death  and 
imprisonment ;  and  now  rising  in  sudden 
wrath,  and  falling  with  resistless  force  upon 
their  foes ;  braving  alike  the  Alpine  storm  and 
serried  armies ;  they  fix  themselves  in  our  affee- 
tions,  and  enlist  all  our  sympathies.  So  weak, 
and  yet  so  resolute ;  so  peeled  and  scattered, 
and  yet  unconquered ;  they  exhibit  all  that  is 
noble,  and  great,  and  heroic  in  man.  Their 
very  home,  amid  the  Alpine  hills — their  quiet 
valleys,  nestling  in  the  lap  of  rugged  moun- 
tains, add  to  the  interest  that  surrounds  them. 
Who  has  not  thought  of  the  "  Vales  of  the 
Vaudois"  with  the  deepest  emotion,  and  lin- 
gered in  imagination  around  their  homes  by 
the  Alpine  stream  ? 

Though  Piedmont  itself  is  an  extensive  pro- 
vince, extending  across  the  Alps  to  Geneva  on 
the  north,  and  resting  on  the  Apennines  around 
Genoa  and  the  Po  on  the  South,  the  Walden- 
ses occupy  a  tract  of  country  only  about  twelve 
miles  square,  and  situated  amid  the  Alps,  on 
the  confines  of  Italy  and  France.  Tlirough  this 
small,  but  wild  region,  are  scattered  several 
valleys,  which  look,  amid  the  savage  peaks  and 
heaven-piercing  cliffs,  like  Innocence  sleeping 
in  the  lap  of  Wrath.  In  midsummer  they  are 
delightful ;  being  covered  with  carpets  of  green, 
which  contrast  beautifully  with  the  snow  sum- 
mits and  everlasting  glaciers  that  surround 
them.  Here  flocks  of  goats  and  herds  of  cows 
may  be  seen  sprinkling  the  sweet  pasturages ; 
and  the  tinkling  of  bells,  the  song  of  the  moun- 
taineer, and  the  bleating  of  the  flocks,  combine 


to  render  them  enchanted  ground.  But  in 
winter  the  Alpine  storm  here  lets  forth  all  its 
fury,  roaring  through  the  gorges,  and  sifting 
the  snow  in  blinding  showers  over  all  things. 
And  long  after  spring  has  decked  the  plains  of 
Piedmont  in  verdure,  snow  covers  the  valleys 
of  the  Waldenses. 

Our  first  engraving  gives  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  the  whole  plain  of  Piedmont,  with  the  Alps 
in  the  distance.  Near  by  is  seen  the  Po,  wind- 
ing through  the  plain  until  it  is  joined  by  the 
Stura  and  Doria.  In  the  centre  stands  Turin, 
the  capital  of  Piedmont.  To  the  right,  and 
close  under  the  Alps,  lies  Rivoli ;  while  to  the 
left,  and  almost  directly  back  of  Turin,  is  Pig- 
nerol,  a  Waldensian  town,  from  which  pro- 
ceeds the  pass  of  Susa  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  Waldensian  country. 

Turin  is  about  three  miles  in  circumference, 
and  surrounded  with  pleasant  promenades  and 
carriage-roads.  It  has  thirteen  squares  and 
eighty-four  streets,  the  latter  crossing  each 
other  at  right  angles,  like  those  of  Phila- 
delphia. It  has  a  population  of  a  hundred  and 
ten  thousand  inhabitants.  It  abounds  in  nobles, 
many  of  whom  are  poor  in  the  extreme,  and  re- 
ceive their  company  in  their  opera-boxes,  to 
save  the  expense  of  wax  candles  at  home. 
The  environs  of  the  city  are  beautiful,  decked 
with  picturesque  villas  and  churches. 

Leaving  the  Piedmontese  capital,  let  us  go 
westward  into  those  fastnesses  of  the  Walden- 
ses, where  still  remain  the  people  who  have 
withstood  all  the  corruptions  of  the  Italian 
church,  survived  the  changes  that  have  rocked 
Europe  and  overthrown  old  dynasties,  and 
emerged  pure  as  gold  from  the  fires  of  persecu- 
tion. They  are  a  standing  miracle  amid  the 
nations  of  the  earth.  That  a  small  and  rude 
community,  a  band  of  mere  peasants,  should 
dare  resist  the  power  of  the  Church,  condemn 
her  departure  from  the  truth,  and  finally  sepa- 
rate from  her,  and  brave  the  fury  of  Catholic 
Europe,  is  certainly  one  of  the  strangest  events 
in  human  history.     The  strong  empire  of  the 


86 


THE    WALDENSES. 


Caesars  was  dismembered,  and  northern  bar- 
barians occupied  the  ancient  Roman  capital. 
Italy  was  overrun  and  subdued,  her  republics 
wiped  from  existence,  and  she,  throughout  her 
entire  extent,  made  to  shake  under  the  victori- 
ous tread  of  armies — yet  there,  in  their  moun- 
tain home,  the  pious  Waldenses  have  lived,  the 
same  in  manners  and  religion. 

From  the  wild  waking  up  of  Europe  in  be- 
half of  the  Crusades,  when  the  West  precipi- 
tated itself  in  boundless  enthusiasm  on  the  East 
to  rescue  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  the  hands  of 
infidels,  to  the  terrible  overflow  of  the  French 
revolution  and  triumphal  march  of  Napoleon — 
through  all  the  changes  that  intervened  they 
have  remained  the  same  apostolic  church — a 
pure  flame  amid  surrounding  and  limitless  dark- 
ness— a  true  and  faithful  Christian  church  amid 
an  apostate  world.    Clustering  around  their  an- 
cient religion,  sometimes  with  the  lofty  resigna- 
tion of  martyrs,  and  sometimes  with  the  stern- 
ness and  heroism  of  veteran  warriors,  they  have 
both  suffered  and  struggled,  fallen  and  con- 
quered, with  unequalled  firmness.     Now  serene 
and  quiet,  their  prayers  and  songs  have  filled  the 
Alpine  valleys  with  joy,  and  now  their  shrieks 
and  death-cries  loaded  the  shuddering  air  with 
sorrow.     To-day,  gazing  on  their  smouldering 
homes  and  wasted  vineyards,  and  to-morrow 
standing  on  an  Alpine  summit,  and  like  the 
captives  of  Zion  as  they  ascended  the  last  hill- 
top that  overlooked  Jerusalem,  sighing  forth 
their  sad  farewell  to  their  mountain  homes — 
now  fugitives  and  exiles,  fleeing  to  stranger 
provinces,  and  now  breaking  with  their  strong 
war-cry  through   their    ancient  defiles,  they 
move  before  us  in  light  and  shade,  alternately 
filling  us  with  joy  and  sadness,  and  bringing 
successive  smiles  and  tears.    A  God-protected 
band,  the  heart  of  every  true  man  loves  them, 
and  the   prayer  of  every  Christian  rises  to 
Heaven  in  their  behalf.    They  have  indeed 
been  witnesses  for  the  truth. 

Of  the  origin  of  the  Waldenses  little  is 
known,  except  what  doubtful  tradition  has  left 


us.  They  claim  to  have  been  founded  by  the 
Apostles,  and  to  have  remained  the  same 
Church  from  the  first  spread  of  Christianity. 
But  nothing  certain,  however,  can  be  ascer- 
tained of  them  prior  to  the  ninth  century.  As 
the  Christian  Church  gradually  receded  from 
the  truth,  and  began  to  adopt  the  errors  which 
now  characterize  Romanism,  the  Waldenses, 
by  their  firm  resistance  to  the  tide  of  corrup- 
tion, and  their  independent  attitude,  excited  the 
hostility  of  both  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
power,  and  those  persecutions  commenced 
which  have  covered  their  name  with  glory  and 
the  Roman  hierarchy  with  everlasting  infamy. 
During  the  nine  hundred  years  in  which  they 
have  withstood  all  attempts  to  overthrow  their 
religion,  their  history  has  been  marked  by  won- 
derful events,  some  of  which  we  design  to  give, 
with  illustrations. 

We  shall  describe  the  successive  persecu- 
tions that  deluged  their  valleys  with  blood,  their 
manly  resistance,  their  desolate  flight  and 
exile,  their  triumphant  return  through  hosts 
of  enemies,  their  pastoral  life,  and  their  battle- 
fields. 

The  first  persecutions  against  them  were 
carried  on  by  the  inquisition,  which  tortured 
and  slew  by  detail.  This  being  found  insuffi- 
cient, the  soldiery  were  called  in,  and  the  sword 
of  war  hewed  down  men,  women,  and  children 
indiscriminately.  This  also  failing  to  exter- 
minate the  heretics,  a  general  expatriation  was 
resorted  to.  This  succeeded  only  for  a  while, 
and  the  Waldenses  still  rear  their  altars  in  their 
ancient  mountain  valleys.  We  wish  to  trace 
them  through  their  changing  career  and  show 
how  religion, 

"  Diffused,  and  fostered  thus,  the  glorious  ray. 
Warmed  where  it  went  and  ripened  into  day, 
'Twas  theirs  to  plant,  in  tears,  the  precious  shoot ; 
'Tis  ours  in  peace  to  reap  the  promised  fruit. 
By  them  (he  bulwark  of  our  faith  was  built — 
Our  church  cemented  by  the  blood  they  spilt. 
In  Heaven's  high  cause  they  gave  all  men  could 

give. 
And  died  its  martyrs  that  the  truth  might  live." 


FADING    SCENES    RECALLED; 


87 


ir^BDHH©  sssHiss  mig(SAiLiLii]in): 


OR,    THE    BYGONE    DAYS    OF    HASTINGS. 


BY     ESTHER     WHITLOCK, 


This  is  the  title  of  a  book  written  by  a  lady 
of  Virginia — a  person  of  high  literary  acquire- 
ments, and  a  friend  and  correspondent  of  Maria 
Edgeworth.  She  has  kindly  shown  us  por- 
tions of  the  manuscript,  which  we  have  read 
with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  The  design  of 
the  work  is  to  sketch  the  manners  and  customs 
of  our  forefathers  and  of  our  rural  districts.  It 
is  not  a  work  of  fiction,  but  of  facts.  Every 
thing  is  described  with  the  minuteness  of 
miniature  painting,  till  we  can  see  the  old 
fence,  the  old  rickety  gate,  the  old  fireplace, 
*nd  indeed  all  that  belongs  to  rustic  life.  Such 
iwoks  are  destined  to  become  popular,  for  the 
'•aste  for  the  past  and  neglected,  in  our  history 
and  customs,  is  every  day  increasing.  England 
has  her  pictorial  history  ;  and  the  customs,  and 
costumes,  and  manners  of  the  most  remote  pro- 
vinces of  Italy  and  France,  and  other  countries, 
find  their  illustrations  in  vvTiting  or  in  paint- 
ing; while  in  this  land  of  newspapers  and 
railroads  each  State  is  almost  a  terra  incognita 
to  the  other.  We  cannot  pronounce  on  this 
book,  not  having  read  the  whole  of  it ;  bnt 
give,  as  a  specimen,  the  following  chapter, 
taken  at  random.  The  reader  will  agree  with 
us  that  for  closeness  and  faithfulness  of  deline- 
ation it  can  hardly  be  surpassed.  May  the  fair 
authoress  meet  the  success  she  deserves. 

THE    FUXERAL- 
"  What  a  simple  burial  it  had  been." — Phof.  Wilsos. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  month  of  August, 
Fanny  Morris  went  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
a  friend  who  lived  six  or  eight  miles  from 
Hastings.  It  was  a  pleasant  season  to  be  in 
the  country,  when  the  summer  fruits  were  in 
full  perfection,  for  they  had  the  previous  spring 
escaped  the  late  frost,  which  in  the  middle 
States  is  so  apt  to  blight  them,  and  had  ripened 
most  beautifully.  Every  tree,  large  and  small, 
seemed  to  have  brought  its  blossoms  to  perfec- 
tion, particularly  the  peach  trees,  whose  limbs 


were  literally  loaded  and  bent  down  with  their 
delicious  burthen  hanging  in  rich  luxuriance 
and  weighing  them  to  the  ground. 

The  autumnal  wild  flowers  were  just  begin- 
ning to  come  forth  in  their  rich  colors,  while 
here  and  there,  some  few  of  the  "  last  roses  of 
summer"  were  lingering,  as  if  unwilling  to 
fade  away.  The  small  yellow  brown  spotted 
flag  was  nearly  out  of  bloom,  but  Fanny  ob- 
served along  tlie  road  side  one  or  two,  yet  fresh, 
among  the  rich  seed  pods  which  surrounded 
them.  A  few  evenings  after  her  arrival  at 
"  Rosewood,"  one  of  Mrs.  Ellis'  servants  in- 
formed her,  that  he  had  heard  that  Mr.  Langdon 
was  very  ill.  He  was  one  of  the  oldest  men  in 
the  neighborhood,  being  upwards  of  eighty ; 
yet  he  felt  so  much  younger  that  he  did  not 
appear  conscious  of  the  ravages  which  lime 
was  imperceptibly  making  on  his  naturally 
vigorous  constitution.  A  day  or  two  before 
the  old  man  died,  his  son,  who  lived  a  few 
miles  off",  rode  over  to  see  his  father,  and  com- 
plained of  not  feeUng  well  himself.  "Ah," 
said  the  old  man,  throwing  his  arm  on  the  out- 
side of  the  bed  as  he  spoke,  "  young  folks  ain't 
good  for  much  these  days.  Now,  Billy,  I'll  bet 
you  a  barrel  of  com  that  I'll  outlive  you  yet." 
But  the  old  man  lost  his  bet,  for  early  on  the 
following  morning  when  Mr.  Oakford,  the 
father  of  Mrs.  EUis,  rode  over  to  see  him, 
he  found  that  Mr.  Langdon  had  breathed  his 
last,  and  Mr.  Oakford  returned  with  the  tidings, 
which  appeared  to  effect  him,  for  he  was  not 
greatly  the  junior  of  old  Mr.  Langdon,  near 
whom  too  he  had  long  resided.  He  also 
brought  notice  that  the  funeral  would  take 
place  the  following  morning.  Fanny  Morris 
with  only  one  or  two  of  the  members  of  the 
family  attended,  a  seat  in  the  carriage  being 
reserved  for  Miss  Penny  Mirack,  tlie  house- 
keeper, for  she  had  been  a  near  neighbor,  and 
old  friend  of  the  Langdons,  and  Mrs.  Ellis 
thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  leave  her  at 
home  on  such  an  occasion.     She  was  gratified 


88 


OR,  THE  BYGONE  DAYS  OF  HASTINGS. 


by  Mrs.  Ellis'  consideration,  and  when  the 
carriage  was  brought  to  the  door,  Miss  Penny 
took  a  seat  in  with  the  rest. 

It  was  a  charming  morning  about  the  close 
of  August,  when  the  summer  and  autumn 
breezes  were  most  delightfully  blending,  and 
the  atmosphere  just  beginning  to  rfeceive  that 
bluish  smoky  tinge  which  so  beautifully  softens 
the  face  of  nature. 

The  small  plantation  of  old  Mr.  Langdon 
was  only  three  or  four  miles  from  "  Rosewood," 
and  the  level  white  gravelly  road  which  led  to 
it,  was  shaded  on  both  sides  by  large  oak  and 
hickory  trees,  the  nutty  fragrance  of  the  latter 
imparting  a  pleasant  odor  to  the  air,  which 
Fanny  remarked  at  the  time ;  and  she  often 
said,  in  after  years,  that  she  thought  the  air 
about  Hastings  had  a  peculiar  sweetness,  nor 
was  it  her  imagination,  but  the  nut  trees  that 
gave  it  its  fragrance.  As  they  rode  along. 
Miss  Penny  descanted  on  the  merits  of  the 
deceased.  She  said  she  '■'■reckoned  the  old 
place  would  have  to  be  sold  now,  so  as  to 
divide  it  among  Mr.  Langdon's  children.  He 
had  always  lived  mighty  well  in  his  family,  he 
and  his  two  daughters  who  had  never  left  him, 
but  he  was  a  mighty  plain,  and  old-fashioned 
man  in  his  notions,  and  never  would  hear  of 
no  extravagance.  That  his  son,  who  was 
married  and  settled  not  far  from  the  old  man, 
had  been  away  to  the  North,  and  had  things 
mighty  showy  about  him  ;  he  had  a  store  car- 
pet, and  a  mahogany  table,  and  painted  chairs 
like  them  in  Mrs.  Ellis'  passage,  and  every 
thing  mighty  fine  at  his  house  ;  but  she  did  not 
reckon  that  old  Mr.  Langdon  would  have  let 
such  things  come  inside  o'  his  door,  if  any  one 
had  gin  urn.  to  him.  He  did  not  go  to  the 
stores  much,  and  mighty  sj'/dom  bought  any 
thing,  for  he  had  most  every  thing  made  at  home. 
That  he  was  a  mighty  good-conditioned  sort  of 
a  man,  who  went  his  own  way  without  disturbin' 
nobody,  that  her  father  and  mother  had  lived 
neighbors-like  to  old  Mr.  Langdon  ever  since 
she  could  remember,  and  though  there  wornt 
no  dividin'  fence  between  their  places,  and 
their  creturs  used  together  constant,  yet  there 
never  had  been  a  cow  run,  nor  so  much  as  a 
pig  crippled,  nor  no  kind  of  interruption  be- 
tween the  families,  as  she  had  ever  hearn  talk  of 
the  whole  time.  As  the  carriage  approached 
the  "  plantation,"  Miss  Penny  told  the  driver 
she  "  reckoned  he  had  better  turn  out  whar 
the  road  forked  and  drive  around  the  corn-field," 
in  the  middle  of  which,  as  she  said,  "  the  house 


stood."  On  approaching  it  in  this  direction, 
there  was  no  road,  but  that  made  by  the  carriage 
for  itself,  through  a  small  field  of  broom  straw. 
This  was  now  literally  yellow,  with  the  "  golden 
rod"  in  full  bloom,  growing  among  low  pines 
so  young  and  pliant,  that  they  bent  readily 
without  breaking  under  the  carriage  as  it  pas- 
sed over  them,  and  being  bruised  now  and  then 
by  the  wheels,  gave  forth  a  fragrance  as  they 
brushed  by  them,  which  reminded  Fanny  of 
one  of  Moore's  many  beautiful  similes  : 

"  The  mind  of  the  injured  and  patient  maid. 
Who  smiles  at  the  wrongs  of  men. 
B  like  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 
Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then." 

On  one  side  of  this  field  was  tb^  fence  of  the 
plantation,  and  the  large  gate>  wnich  was  now 
left  wide  open  for  the  convenience  of  the  neigh- 
bors coming  to  the  funeral.  Some  few  walked, 
but  most  of  them  came  on  horseback,  and  on 
dismounting  hitched  their  steeds  to  the  low 
limbs  of  a  long  row  of  fine  young  sugar-cherry 
trees,  the  fruit  of  which  having  long  since 
matured,  their  yellow  leaves  now  fluttering  in 
every  breeze  were  falling  thickly  around  them. 
Here  and  there  the  women's  riding  "  skeerts^' 
of  large  checked  copperas  and  blue  homespun, 
were  thrown  over  the  low  limbs  of  the  trees, 
while  others  were  left  hanging  down  from  the 
saddles  and  still  remained  on  the  horses.  Mrs. 
Ellis'  driver  stopped  the  carriage  at  what  he 
considered  a  respectful  distance  from  the  house, 
there  being  no  yard  fence  and  gate,  as  usual, 
to  separate  it  from  the  field.  The  ladies 
alighted  and  saw  on  approaching  the  house 
the  seats  which  had  been  prepared  for  the  com- 
pany. These  seats  were  of  such  rude  sort  as 
the  hurry  of  the  present  emergency  rendered 
unavoidable.  They  were  formed  merely  of 
rough  planks,  with  the  bark  side  turned  down- 
wards, supported  by  round  logs  of  wood,  with 
the  bark  still  on  ;  laid  parallel  to  each  other  on 
the  ground,  just  at  a  sufficient  distance  to  admit 
of  a  passage  between  them.  Besides  these 
temporary  seats,  there  were  a  few  rush-bottomed 
chairs  of  different  sizes,  and  some  wooden 
"  crickets"  appropriated  to  the  females.  All 
these  seats  were  arranged  between  the  dwell- 
ing-house and  a  magnificent  old  mulberry  tree, 
which  stretched  its  patriarchal  brandies  in 
venerable  dignity  many  yards  beyond  its  im- 
mense trunk.  When  Fanny  Morris  and  hex 
party  approached  this  spot,  they,  following  tlie 
example  of  other  females,  took  their  seats  in 


FADING    SCENES    RECALLED: 


89 


chairs  under  the  tree ;  and  before  the  people 
had  all  arrived,  Fanny  had  ample  time  to  con- 
template the  rural  scene  which  was  presented 
to  her  pleased  and  obser\  ing  e3'e.  The  dwell- 
ing-house in  which  Mr.  Langdon  had  reared 
his  family,  who  were  now  all  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced in  life,  was  a  small  wooden  building 
about  thirty  feet  square.  The  shingles  on  the 
roof  were  patched  and  "  melting"  away,  and  so 
was  the  weather  boarding,  while  neither  the 
one,  nor  the  otlier,  had  ever  received  the  first 
brush  of  paint.  There  were  two  square  holes 
which  might  have  admitted  of  four  small  panes 
of  glass,  had  there  been  sashes  to  receive  them, 
but  not  only  were  these  wanting,  but  also 
hinges  for  such  close  wooden  shutters  as  must 
have  been  occasionally  used,  though  none  ap- 
peared on  the  out  or  inside  of  the  house  ;  tlie 
latter  however  Fanny  had  not  yet  seen.  A 
round  block  of  wood,  from  which  the  bark  had 
not  been  stripped,  was  standing  on  one  of  its 
flat  ends,  and  served  for  a  step  to  the  front 
door,  facing  the  mulberry  tree.  At  tlie  back  of 
the  house,  and  extending  a  little  beyond  it  on 
<Mie  side,  appeared  the  garden,  enclosed  by  a 
zigzag  or  "  worm  fence,"  as  it  is  called,  such 
as  surrounded  the  plantation.  The  little  gate 
to  the  garden  was  so  very  picturesque,  that 
Fanny  wished  she  could  have  sketched  it  as  it 
stood.  It  was  hanging  all  awry  from  its  rude 
hinges,  while  the  latch  which  kept  it  shut  ex- 
tended across,  to  within  one,  of  the  five  rough 
short  palings  which  formed  it,  and  this  latch 
fell  ponderously  into  a  great  wooden  catch 
quite  large  enough  to  receive  it.  From  the 
view  that  Fanny  had  of  the  garden,  it  appeared 
to  be  well  stocked  with  common  vegetables. 
She  saw  fine  large  "  collards,"  and  garlick,  and 
onions  supporting  their  rich  stalks  crowned 
with  large  heads  in  their  full  dress  of  purple 
flowers ;  there  were  also  herbs,  such  as  mint, 
balm,  sage  and  tliyme,  as  well  as  those  flowers 
which  seem  to  grow  spontaneously  in  old  coun- 
try gardens,  such  as  coxcombs,  bachelor's  but- 
tons, marigolds,  sunflowers,  and  "  Love-lies- 
bleeding  ;"  while  a  merry  row  of  red  peppers, 
with  their  long  scarlet  pods,  seemed  to  vie  with 
them  all  in  their  gay  appearance.  Immediately 
outside  of  the  gate  and  very  near  it,  was  a 
flourishing  young  apple  tree,  which  appeared 
to  have  sprung  up  there  of  its  own  accord,  and 
was  now  showing  to  the  best  advantage  its 
beautiful  red-cheeked  apples.  Not  far  oS'and 
shaded  by  a  cedar  tree,  stood  a  longish  old 
weather-beaten,  stout-legged  bench  supporting 


with  vigor  several  beehives.  Immediately 
under  the  mulberry  tree  and  leaning  against 
its  trunk,  stood  a  small  milk  dairy  on  four  high 
legs,  like  a  safe.  The  perfect  stillness  which 
reigned  around  was  occasionally  interrupted  by 
first  one  servant  and  then  another,  going  to 
this  dairy  and  rattling  in  some  domestic  prepa- 
rations the  plates  and  dishes  which  it  now 
seemed  to  contain.  The  servants  were  all 
neatly  dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  Some 
mothers  were  standing  here  and  there,  near  the 
little  one-sided  log  kitchen,  which  was  but  a 
short  distance  from  the  dairy,  with  their  infants 
in  their  arms,  or  a  little  toddling  thing  clinging 
to  their  petticoats,  while  peeping  from  behind 
their  folds.  Little  negroes  were  lugging  on 
their  backs  blue-lipped  babies  almost  as  large 
as  themselves,  looking  with  all  their  eyes  at 
what  was  passing  before  them;  while  those 
advanced  in  life  found  seats  on  the  gnarled 
roots  of  the  old  mulberry  tree,  rising  as  they 
did  in  many  places,  half  a  foot  above  the  ground, 
thus  appearing  for  some  yard  or  two  and  then 
burying  themselves  again. 

Fanny  was  delighted  with  this  rural  scene  ; 
even  the  low  log  chimney  to  the  kitchen,  with 
a  little  sweet-potato  house,  looking  like  a  kind 
of  a  mud  pocket  stufled  full,  and  sticking  out 
behind  it,  had  its  charms  for  her ;  nor  did  she 
overlook  a  number  of  small  water  gourds,  all 
nicely  cleaned,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
hanging  since  the  past  season  on  some  plum 
trees  below  the  kitchen  ;  the  plum  nursery  as  it 
is  called.  She  observed,  too,  how  nicely  the 
men  were  dressed  who  came  to  the  funeral, 
generally  in  home-spun  and  home-made  clothes, 
cut  to  be  sure  in  all  fashions,  some  waists 
between  the  shoulders,  others  again  as  much 
too  long,  but  all  perfectly  clean,  as  if  the 
wearere  would  show  their  respect  for  the 
deceased.  One  young  buck  had  distinguished 
himself  by  a  broad  plaid  ribbon  tied  round  his 
hat  for  a  band,  but  he  was  unique  in  this  piece 
of  foppery. 

As  the  men  on  arriving  approached  the  seats 
prepared  for  them,  they  merely  gave  a  nod  of 
recognition  to  their  acquaintances,  without 
speaking  so  as  to  be  heard,  and  no  sound 
escaped  their  lips  but  the  squirting  of  tobacco 
juice  from  them.  As  the  time  for  tlie  sermon 
ap-r-oached  there  was  a  quiet  sort  of  stir  among 
the  females  towards  the  house,  which  they 
entered,  followed  by  some  of  the  gentlemen, 
carrying  for  their  accommodation  the  chairs 
which  they  previously  occupied.     The  cofin 


90 


OR,  THE  BYGONE  DAYS  OF  HASTINGS. 


containing  the  body  of  the  deceased,  supported 
by  two  rush-bottomed  chairs,  was  standing  in 
the  only  room  below.  They  were  without  paint, 
but  scoured  as  white  as  the  water  pail,  which 
stood  on  a  shelf,  over  a  wooden  table,  on  which 
as  many  women  were  sitting  as  it  could 
accommodate.  Two  beds  in  the  room  were  oc- 
cupied in  the  same  way.  The  women  "  were 
dressed  in  their  Sunday's  best"  garments,  which 
had  evidently  long  been  faithful  servants. 
There  was  to  be  seen  "the  modern  antique," 
some  full  deep  flounces  stiffly  starched  but 
crushed  most  piteously  by  their  ride  on  horse- 
back, and  such  comical  bonnets  as  baffle  de- 
scription. Some  rosy-cheeked  young  things 
looked  as  if  their  round  faces  were  packed 
away  in  bouquets  of  old  artificial  flowers,  and 
one  or  iwo  appeared  to  have  robbed  their  fly 
bonnets  of  the  old  pasteboards,  and  tied  it 
round  their  waists  ;  the  dress  over  it  stuck  out 
in  such  a  queer  crumpled-horn  manner,  that 
Fanny  thought  it  might  be  in  imitation  of  Mrs. 
Grove's  hoops.  Old  and  young  were  now 
crowding  into  the  room.  Some  women  with 
their  infants  in  their  arms,  others  closely  fol- 
lowed by  their  older  children,  who  clung  to  them 
as  they  walked,  and  stood  jamming  themselves 
as  near  as  possible  to  them  when  seated,  look- 
ing shy  and  stealing  glances  over  their  shoul- 
ders from  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  at  "  the 
folks"  and  the  coffin  in  which  they  had  been 
told  ■'  old  Mr.  Langdon  was  dead  and  nailed  up." 
This  coffin  was  large  enough  for  the  accom- 
modation of  one  twice  the  size  of  the  man 
which  it  contained.  It  was  simply  a  large  ob- 
long box,  painted  black,  and  was  evidently 
home-made.  A  white  cotton  sheet  was  thrown 
over  it,  while  the  cords  by  which  it  was  to  be 
lowered  into  the  grave  were  as  simple  as  the 
rest  of  the  appliances ;  one  being  a  cotton 
home-twisted  leading  line,  or  plough  bridle,  the 
other  a  stout  hempen  rope,  such  as  served  plan- 
tation purposes,  for  which  this  had  evidently 
ueen  used.  These  ropes  were  under  the  coffin 
on  the  chairs,  with  the  ends  straying  about  the 
floor  as  they  chanced  to  fall.  Not  long  after 
the  females  had  assembled  in  the  house,  several 
men  came  in,  and  moved  the  coffin  quietly  out 
of  doors,  placing  it  on  chairs  in  the  shade  of 
the  great  mulberry  tree,  under  which,  no  doubt, 
the  old  man  had  many  a  time  sat,  and  while  lie 
rested  his  body,  refreshed  his  mind,  looking 
with  satisfaction  on  the  tobacco  field  which  now 
presented  the  plants  growing  in  great  luxu- 
riance, while  beyond  it  was  a  fine  crop  of  corn 


in  full  ear.  As  soon  as  the  coffin  was  taken 
out  of  the  house,  the  "emales  followed  it,  for 
they  now  knew  that  the  service  was  to  be  per- 
formed out  of  doors.  Those  who  had  been  sit- 
ting on  chairs,  took  them  along,  Fanny  among 
the  rest,  and,  in  a  short  time,  all  were  somehow 
or  other  seated.  Then  there  was  another 
pause,  (waiting  perhaps  for  the  arrival  of  the 
minister,)  during  which  Fanny  saw  that  Tup 
Riggin,  an  idiot  man  who  attended  all  funerals 
for  ten  miles  round,  had  found  his  way  hither. 
He  had  seated  himself  on  one  end  of  the  plank 
near  the  foot  of  the  coffin,  while  just  opposite 
to  him  another  idiot,  a  grandson  of  the  de- 
ceased, had  placed  himself  in  a  chair.  There 
they  both  quietly  sat,  the  idiot  boy  wiping  his 
hands  and  then  twisting  the  pocket  handker- 
chief into  tight  knots,  as  if  it  were  a  novelty  to 
him  ;  and  then  blinking  his  eyes  as  if  they  had 
sand  in  them,  and  rubbing  them  with  both  his 
fists.  Meanwhile  there  sat  Tup,  making  all 
kinds  of  curious  grimaces,  and,  as  if  to  defy 
him,  a  little  yellow  cur  dog  took  his  seat  on  the 
ground  facing  him  near  the  head  of  the  coffin. 
The  preacher  at  last  made  his  appearance, 
and  took  his  stand  with  a  hymn  book  in  his 
hand,  behind  a  chair  near  the  coffin.  He  com- 
menced by  informing  the  congregation  that 
"  both  the  hymn  he  was  about  to  give  out,  and 
the  text  on  this  melancholy  occasion,  had  been 
long  since  chosen  by  the  deceased."  He  then 
read  the  hymn,  after  which  he  "  gave  out"  a  line 
at  a  time,  which  was  sung  accordingly,  and  it 
was  pleasing  to  hear  in  the  open  air  so  many 
voices  united  in  harmony  of  feeling,  if  not  of 
sound.  Men  and  women,  white  and  black,  all 
sang  together.  One  old  negro  man,  whose 
head  was  white  as  cotton,  had  come  "  trem- 
bling through  the  woods"  to  the  funeral,  and 
rested  when  he  got  there,  on  one  of  the  knotty 
roots  of  the  old  tree,  now  stood  up,  and  joined 
in  the  hymn,  while  the  idiot  man — his  mouth 
not  yet  quite  empty — gave  forth  the  most  dis- 
cordant sounds,  gabbling  with  the  greatest  ra- 
pidity to  the  slow  measure  such  gibberish  as 
his  mind  suggested.  Soon  after  the  hymn  was 
sung,  and  the  prayer  commenced,  tiic  clouds 
which  had  been  for  some  time  gathering,  now 
approached  with  distant  thunder,  and  in  a  short 
time  large  drops  were  heard  rattling  among  the 
foliage,  and  the  freshening  breeze  passing 
through  the  old  mulberry  tree,  shook  down 
some  fading  leaves  moistened  with  rain  drops 
upon  the  funeral  sheet.  For  some  moments 
the  weather  was  apparently  unheeded ;    the 


I-ADliNG     SCENES    RECALLED. 


91 


people  all  remained  stationary,  but  the  shower 
increased,  s-(^that  the  females,  regardless  of  the 
service,  but  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  rose 
in  a  body  and  ran  to  the  house,  while  the  men 
hastened  to  remove  once  more  the  remains  of 
the  poor  old  man  within  its  doors.  All  this 
was  of  course  very  distressing  to  his  daughters, 
who  now  wept  aloud. 

•'  Happy  is  the  corpse  that  the  rain  rains  on," 

and  just  enough  had  fallen  on  this  coffin  to  sat- 
isfy the  believers  of  the  old  saying. 

The  preacher  who  followed  after,  had  a  full 
share  of  the  shower,  and  as  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  hung  it  very  deliberately  on  one  of  the 
knobs  of  the  chair  which  supported  the  head 
of  the  coffin,  the  water  streamed  from  its  broad 
brim  upon  the  floor.  The  room  was  now  filled 
witli  women,  so  that  those  men  who  crowded 
in  for  the  most  part  stood  in  the  fire-place ! 
Fanny,  who  sat  near,  counted  seven,  standing 
there  with  perfect  ease,  their  heads  not  touch- 
ing the  upper  part  of  the  opening  of  the  fire- 
place, and  seven  more  could  have  found  a  place 
there  without  much  difficulty. 

Before  they  entered  the  house  Fanny  had 
been  in  the  act  of  placing  her  chair  there,  but 
some  person  advised  her  against  it,  lest  she 
might  get  wet  with  the  rain  falling  down  the 
chimney !  She  could  not  help  observing  the 
various  things  which  were  scattered  within  this 
ample  fire-place,  as  if  it  had  been  a  small  room. 
In  one  corner  stood  some  walking  slicks ;  a  long 
reed,  and  a  frying-pan  handle,  in  the  other. 
An  old  wing  and  a  bunch  of  cotton  string  were 
on  a  sort  of  a  ledge  at  the  back,  on  which  also 
lay  one  or  two  dusty  looking  ripe  peaches,  and 
a  pair  of  old  scissors,  while  on  a  wooden  peg, 
high  np  on  the  inside,  was  hung  an  uncom- 
monly large  tin  nutmeg  grater.  Here  and 
there,  within  the  room,  answerng  the  purpose 
of  cloak  pins,  were  stout  crotchets,  cut  to  a 
convenient  length,  and  nailed  to  the  beams  and 
studs.  But  to  return  to  the  funeral.  What 
became  of  the  men  under  the  tree,  during  the 
shower,  Fanny  knew  not ;  however,  it  lasted 
but  a  short  time,  and  then  the  clouds  partially 
dispersed,  and  the  sun  shone  brightly,  as  well 
down  the  chimney  as  elsewhere.  The  preach- 
er now  took  his  stand  in  the  door,  for  the  con- 
venience of  those  witliin  and  without,  and  pro- 
ceeded without  further  interruption,  for  when 
the  babies  cried  their  mothers  found  an  imme- 
diate relief  for  their  wants. 

He  commenced  with  the  solemn  text,  "  I  am 


the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  and  proceeded, 
"  Now,  my  friends,  I  can't  tell  you  how  this  is, 
like  as  if  I  was  tellin'  you  how  to  make  one  of 
them  tobacco  hills,"  pointing  as  he  spoke  to  the 
object  close  at  hand,  "  nor  as  if  I  was  showin' 
you  how  to  make  a  tobacco  hogshead,  but  I  will 
do  the  best  I  can  to  set  forth  the  meanin'  of 
the  text,  which,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  was 
the  one  chosen  by  our  lamented  friend  for  his 
funeral  sermon."  The  preacher  then  proceed- 
ed with  his  explanation,  and,  after  some  time 
thus  occupied,  he  expressed  his  regret  that  the 
unsettled  state  of  the  weather  prevented  his 
speaking  more  fully  on  the  subject.  "  I  see 
the  clouds  seem  to  be  athick'nin'  again,  and  it's 
likely  we'll  have  more  rain,"  observed  he, 
looking  out  of  the  door,  and  stretching  his 
neck  up  to  take  a  view  of  the  weather,  as  he 
spoke  ;  "  yet  I  must  detain  you  a  short  time, 
while  I  speak  a  few  words  about  our  lamented 
friend  who  has  gone  before  us.  You  all  know, 
my  brethren,  that  Mr  Langdon  was  an  honest, 
upright  man,  a  good  father  and  a  peaceable 
neighbor.  He  was  old-fashioned  in  his  politics, 
for  he  had  fought  in  the  revolutionary  war,  and 
had  his  own  notions  about  the  affairs  of  his 
country,  but  he  never  was  no  enthusiast,  fair 
from  it,  for  he  was  a  man  of  candear,  and  a 
good  citizen,"  &c.  The  concluding  hymn  was 
then  sung,  and  the  coffin,  supported  by  the 
friends  of  the  family,  was  carried  to  the  grave. 
The  old  man's  daughters  wept  audibly  and  found 
many  friends  to  show  them  sympathy.  All  fol- 
lowed on  to  the  grave,  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren, not  in  procession,  nor  by  a  beaten  path, 
but  through  an  old  field  towards  an  orchard  ; 
crashing,  as  they  walked,  the  straw  under  their 
feet,  and  making  their  way  through  weeds  and 
wild  flowers.  The  grave,  nearly  square,  with 
sides  sm.ooth  almost  to  a  polish,  was  situated 
at  the  extremity  of  this  little  field,  and  near  a 
beautiful  cedar  which  seemed  to  be  giving  to  a 
fine  horse-apple  tree  a  sheltering  embrace  ;  the 
intermingled  foliage  of  the  two  presenting  a 
variety  of  beautiful  shades. 

"  The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around. 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred. 

Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  birds  ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers." 

"How  peaceful,"  thought  Fanny,  "how 
tranquil,  seem  old  orchard  and  old  garden 
graves,  where  trees  blossom  and  drop  their 


92 


WASHINGTON'S    FAREWELL    TO    HIS    OFFICERS. 


ripened  fruit  noiselessly  upon  the  long  grassy 
covering,  and  bees  hum,  while  birds  sing  and 
build  their  nests,  and  teach  their  young  to  fly, 
and  soar  with  them  aloft,  all  undisturbed.  The 
familiarity  of  such  scenes  does  not  create  in- 
difference, for  the  hand  of  love  will  still  plant 
flowers  and  shrubs,  and  cultivate  the  spot 
cherished  by  lingering  affection.  Many  a 
bright  summer's  day  and  soft  moonlight  night 
will  the  mocking-bird  pour  forth  its  delightful 
notes,  and  dance  to  its  own  music  on  the  top- 
most branch  of  that  beautiful  cedar,  while 
through  its  boughs  the  breeze  will  waft  a  sigh 
over  the  old  man's  grave.  The  sleep  of  death 
seems  a  sweet  repose,  thus  cradled  in  the  lap, 
and  lulled  by  the  voice  of  Nature." 

While  the  people  were  leisurely  approaching 
the  grave,  the  coffin  was  lowered,  and  the  last 
hymn  was  sung  as  they  stood  in  groups  about 
it.  An  old  negro  woman,  neatly  dressed  in  a 
dark  "  habit,"  her  cotton  apron,  white  as  snow, 
seemed  to  vie  with  the  deep,  full  border  of  her 
cap,  as  it  was  seen  even  beyond  the  front  of 
her  great  old  black  bonnet.    She  stood  at  a 


respectful  distance  from  the  head  of  the  grave, 
leaning  with  both  hands  on  the  head  of  a  stout 
old  smoke-dried  stick,  which  lool^d  as  if  it  had 
been  her  staff  for  many  a  year.  She  did  not 
appear  to  see  any  thing  that  was  passing  but 
the  interment  of  the  dead.  Not  far  from  the 
foot  of  the  grave,  but  apart  from  every  one 
else,  stood  a  negro  man,  bent  double  by  either 
age  or  infirmity,  his  body  being  literally  at 
right  angles  with  his  lower  limbs.  He  was 
too  respectful  to  wear  his  hat,  and  as  he  re- 
quired both  hands  to  support  him,  with  the  aid 
of  a  stick,  in  the  only  position  he  could  stand, 
the  poor  old  fellow  held  his  crumpled  hat  be- 
tween his  knees,  and  covered  his  head  with  a 
clean  white  rag  to  protect  it  from  the  damp  air. 
Tup  Riggin  had  taken  his  stand  so  close  to  the 
brink  of  the  grave  as  to  be  in  some  danger  of 
falling  in,  and  there  remained  until  obliged  to 
move  for  those  who  were  about  to  fill  it  up. 
The  last  Fanny  saw  of  him  he  was  seated  in 
the  orchard,  watching  those  who  were  forming 
the  grave  mound. 


WASMMi^wM^©  iF-amiwim  m  mm  mnmm. 


The  hour  of  parting  came,  that  saddest  hour. 
That  Washington,  the  noblest  and  the  best, 
The  glorious  day-star  of  a  nation's  hopes. 
Must  part  with  those  who  long  had  shared  his 

toils ; 
Brave  hearts  and  true,  who  in  his  darkest  hour, 
When  scarce  one  ray  of  hope  lit  up  the  gloom. 
Or  one  bright  star  illumed  the  cheerless  night, 
Had  borne  with  him  its  sufferings  and  its  cares — 
And  there  they  stood,  a  noble-hearted  band. 
And  thrilling  memories  of  the  eventful  past, 
Its  toils  and  conflicts,  with  its  hopes  and  fears, 
When  side  by  side  they  shared  the  unequal 

strife. 
Came  crowding  o'er  him,  till  his  mighty  heart 
Was  sunk  in  silent  grief. 
Those  lion-hearted  men,  who  mid  the  din 
And  carnage  of  the  battle-field  had  seemed 
As  never  made  for  tears,  were  weeping  fast ; 


And  voices  choked  with  sorrow  could  not  give 
An  utterance  to  that  mournful  word,  farewell. 
Such  was  the  scene,  and  such  its  thrilling 

power, 
When,  for  a  moment  gazing  on  the  band, 
The  noble  patriot,  with  a  bursting  heart. 
Embraced  in  turn  each  loved  and  honored  one; 
And  then,  in  silent  anguish,  turned  away. 
While  those  who  saw  were  melted  into  tears. 

The  scene  still  lives. 
While  those  who  shared  it  long  have  passed 

away; 
And  it  will  live;  'tis  cherished  warm  and  true 
Within  a  nation's  heart,  and  hallowed  memo- 
ries 
Of  high  and  noble  deeds — a  birthright  won 
By  self-devoted  toil  and  conflict  stern. 


NOTES    ON    MY     TRAVEI»S 


93 


HdDIPlSS     (DH     MY    ^mA¥llILiiS 


IN  EUROPE,  ASIA,  AFRICA  AND  AMERICA. 


BZ    AN     ITALIAN     OFFICER. 


I  VISITED  Florence  a  few  days  ago,  and  went 
once  more  to  the  Italian  Pantheon,  to  see  the 
tombs  of  our  greatest  men.  In  no  place  in  the 
world  is  congregated  so  much  of  departed 
genius  as  in  the  church  of  Santa  Croce. 

" here  repose 

Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his. 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  ^t 
rose." 

I  knelt  before  the  statue  of  the  Altissimo  Poeta, 
Dante,  and  I  admired  it  with  a  kind  of  worship 
and  grief. 

"  Ungrateful  Florence  !  Dante  sleeps  afar;" 

tliou  hast  exiled  the  zealous  republican  poet, 
burned  Savonarola,  the  people's  tribune,  the  | 
reformer  of  morals  and  religion,  and  from  a 
free  and  prosperous  republic  thou  art  now  an 
humble  slave,  an  appanage  to  a  foreign  prince. 
In  Pisa  I  saw  Galileo's  monument  in  the 
yard  of  the  same  university  where  two  centu- 
ries ago  he  taught  and  pursued  his  astronomi- 
cal observations.  The  great  Galileo  !  the  new 
creator  of  science,  was  condemned  to  the  torture 
and  imprisonment  for  his  discoveries  and  in- 
ventions ;  yet  after  his  death  Rome  herself  was 
compelled  to  admit,  and  even  to  teach,  his  doc- 
trines ! 

To-morrow  I  shall  give  my  last  farewell  to 
Italy ;  to  escape  the  persecutions  and  rage  of 
our  tyrants,  I  find  no  other  way  of  salvation 
than  to  sail  for  a  foreign  country.  I  asked  a 
passport  for  America,  and  my  demand  has  been 
regarded  with  suspicion.  No  more  hopes  for 
liberty ;  the  police  has  prescribed  to  me  as  a 
favor  to  take  senice  in  a  war-vessel  for  Egypt. 
Although  of  a  neutral  nation,  our  vessel  is  to 
be  at  the  disposal  of  Mohamed  Ali,  and  to  fight 
under  an  Egyptian  flag.  The  captain  has 
received  orders  by  the  Tuscan  government  not 
to  let  me  land  in  any  port,  but  if  we  stop  at 


Malta,  as  it  is  proposed  to  do,  I  shall  desert  at 
once,  and  leave  forever  my  floating  prison. 

"And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone. 
Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea." 

We  left  Livorno  for  Alexandria  in  Egypt 
It  was  the  first  time  that  I  left  my  native  land. 
Had  I  heard  from  my  father  and  my  sister,  my 
departing  would  not  have  been  so  sorrowful ; 
but  our  letters  were  intercepted  by  the  Italian 
government.  Before  noon  we  passed  between 
the  Tuscan  shores  and  the  island  of  Elba,  so 
famous  since  the  first  exile  of  Napoleon,  and 
in  a  short  time  I  saw  the  black  island  of  Monte 
Cristo,  to-day  made  a  terrestrial  paradise  by 
Alexander  Dumas. 

We  arrived  at  Naples  in  the  morning,  and 
after  a  few  hours  of  anchorage,  continued  our 
course.  No  coast  in  the  world  is  more  rich 
with  the  beauties  of  Nature  than  that  between 
Naples  and  Cape  Misene.  All  that  land  is 
classic  and  full  of  historical  remembrances. 
Here  you  see  Naples,  with  Vesuvius  ;  there 
you  look  on  beautiful  islands,  sprinkled  over 
the  bay,  and  on  the  picturesque  hills  from 
Naples  to  Gaeta.  There  is  Serrento,  the  native 
place  of  Torquato  Tasso,  the 

" victor  unsurpassed  in  modem  song !" 

and  Virgilius'  ashes  repose  in  the  most  beauti- 
ful situation  of  the  Neapolitan  gulf.  At  sun- 
set we  left  behind  us  Sicily,  the  last  Italian 
promontory. 

♦'  Adieu,  adieu,  ray  native  shore !" 
We  remained  only  one  day  in  Malta,  and  no 
one  of  the  crew  has  been  allowed  to  go  on 
shore.  The  night  before  we  left,  we  took  on 
board  a  quantity  of  gunpowder  and  arms  for 
the  Pacha  of  Egypt. 

The  second  day  of  our  voyage  we  coasted 
the  island  of  Candia,  where  we  met  the  French 
squadron,  composed  of  fifteen  vessels,  drawn 
up  in  battle  array.    Had  France  followed  the 


94 


IN    EUROPE,    ASIA,     AFRICA    AND    AMERICA. 


policy  of  Thiers,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
French  commodore,  Laland,  would  have  at- 
tacked and  destroyed  the  English  squadron. 
But  the  French  government  had  betrayed 
Mohamed  Ali,  as  it  had  Italy  and  Poland  in 
1831.  Napier,  the  English  commodore,  in  a 
private  conversation  a  few  months  after,  avowed 
the  superiority  of  the  French. 

We  met  the  English  squadron  at  the  island 
of  Cypro,  en  route  for  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  and 
our  captain,  fearing  to  be  discovered,  sailed 
directly  for  Alexandria. 

Alexandria  cannot  be  discovered  until  within 
twenty  miles,  so  low  is  the  shore.  When  ten 
miles  distant  we  received  on  board  the  pilot. 
He  announced  to  us  the  terrible  ravages  of  the 
oriental  plague,  the  distress  of  the  inhabitants, 
and  the  intention  of  Mohamed  Ali  to  prosecute 
the  war.  Before  the  harbor  there  were  a  few 
English  and  Austrian  vessels,  and  saluting  the 
Egyptian  squadron,  we  sailed  boldly  in.  The 
same  day,  I  was  sent  to  tiie  Tuscan  consul 
with  dispatches,  but  found  it  impossible  to 
escape  ;  besides,  I  should  have  been  exposed  to 
more  evils  than  to  be  on  board.  The  hatred 
of  the  inhabitants  is  great  against  all  Uie  Euro- 
peans who  have  interfered  with  Ibrahim  Pacha 
in  his  glorious  way  to  Constantinople.  We 
could  not  land  without  being  well  armed  and 
bearing  our  flag.  Mohamed  Ali  will  not  con- 
clude any  treaty  with  the  Ottoman  Porte,  and 
he  seems  resolved  to  continue  the  war  in  Syria. 
Every  day  the  Turkish  squadron  is  expected 
here  to  act  against  the  town. 

I  tread  at  last  the  soil  of  Egypt ;  but  that 
country,  for  ages  so  great  and  celebrated,  has 
now  a  palsied  arm,  and  can  only  weep  over  its 
own  misfortunes.  In  vain  I  sought  for  any 
vestiges  of  old  monuments  of  the  great  and 
ancient  Alexandria  ;  there  is  not  a  single  trace 
to  be  found  of  the  philosophical  school  of  the 
magicians,  or  of  the  baths  of  Cleopatra,  or  of 
the  royal  splendor  of  Alexander.  All  has  per- 
ished— all  sleep  in  the  silence  of  ruin ;  for 
every  thing  that  remained  of  antiquity  was  de- 
stroyed by  vandal  Mahomedanism.  The  soil 
itself  has  changed  its  appearance. 

The  banks  of  the  Nile,  which  presented  beau- 
tiful grottoes  and  delightful  retreats  in  the 
time  of  Sesostris,  are  no  more  inhabited,  as 
then,  by  a  cheerful,  hospitable,  and  industrious 
population,  nor  visited  any  more  by  vessels  of 
different  nations,  moving  up  and  down  the 
stream. 

Now  the  shore  is  occupied  by  some  thou- 


I  sands  of  poor  laborers,  who  work  without  rest 
■>  under  the  blows  of  soldiers,  as  the  poor  exiled 
\  Poles  in  the  mines  of  Siberia.  A  few  kange 
\  (light  boats  moved  by  oars  and  sails)  serve 
\  for  carriages.  The  boats  of  the  Delta  are  gen- 
\  erally  larger  than  those  of  the  Adriatic,  for 
I  passengers  ply  from  Rosetta  to  Cairo  with  a 
<  crew  of  from  three  to  thirty  men.  When  the 
I  wind  is  contrary,  and  one  is  going  up  the  Nile, 
\  the  boatmen  land,  and  with  a  rope  round  their 
necks,  drag  the  kange  slowly  against  the 
\  stream,  often  without  rest,  or  even  food,  from 
^  morning  till  evening,  when  they  stop  to  take 
[  some  beans  and  doura  bread.  They  then  re- 
;,  sume  their  cord  for  the  whole  nig-ht,  and  thus 
^   they  continue  their  labors  for  a  fortnight. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  vigor  of  the  Arab 
race,  and  at  the  same  time  at  their  patience 
and  kindness  of  disposition.  It  is  necessary 
to  imagine  all  the  power  of  habit  and  religious 
belief,  to  understand  how  so  energetic  a  people 
can  submit  to  be  driven  by  the  blows  of  a  weak 
and  corrupt  aristocracy,  and  so  willingly  en- 
dure misery.  Nothing  can  equal  the  wretch 
edness  of  the  Fellahs.  On  approaching  then, 
a  spectacle  of  misery  and  wretchedness  pre- 
sents itself  to  the  traveller — blind,  idiots, 
and  leprous  men,  women,  and  children,  all  ly- 
ing on  the  ground,  or  upon  a  little  old  straw, 
which  serves  them  for  a  bed. 

Nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  Balshees,  Ban. 
slices  !  The  cry  of  money  is  general,  and  every 
where  greets  the  traveller  on  his  arrival  and  at 
his  departure.  The  poor  Fellahs  live  on  avi 
elevated  piece  of  ground,  opening  upon  a  wide 
waste  that  seems  never  designed  as  a  refuge 
for  men. 

Where  are  the  numerous  and  magnificent 
cities  of  antiquity  ?  Ah  !  ancient  Egypt !  Mo- 
ther of  the  world  !  as  thy  children  call  thee  in 
their  beautiful  and  pompous  language ;  thou 
who  hast  given  all  things  to  mankind — laws, 
sciences,  arts,findustry ;  why  hast  thou  kept 
nothing  for  thyself? 

Tho»  miscalled  Pompey'a  Pillar  is  the  only 
monument  which  has  resisted  the  assaults  of 
time  and  disaster.  Mohamed  Ali  has  built  ar- 
senals, opened  canals,  and  erected  granaries, 
but  has  done  nothing  tomehorate  the  condition 
of  the  miserable  people — 

"Cnidelitas    unicum  fundamentum  imperii  Tur- 
cici." 

The  Frank  quarter  is  the  best  part  of  Alex- 
andria, the  Scala  Franco  or  Frank  Square,  of- 


NOTES    OF    MY    TRAVELS. 


95 


fers  a  most  beautiful  appearance,  being  quite 
surrounded  with  trees  and  with  palaces  built  in 
handsome  Italian  style,  where  the  foreign  con- 
suls reside,  like  petty  sovereigns,  in  the  expen- 
sive and  commodious  manner  of  European  no- 
blemen. Not  far  off  is  the  monastery,  re- 
cently built  by  the  famous  architect,  Signor 
Zanetti  of  Parma,  inhabited  by  monks  of  all 
kinds,  and  colors,  some  waiting  to  be  sent  into 
the  interior,  others  to  remain  here,  or  to  return 
to  Europe.  Here  the  reverend  fathers  enjoy 
the  business  of  doing  nothing.  Not  being 
bound  to  "  divine  self-tortures,"  nor  subject  to 
strict  obser\ances,  they  indulge  in  what  is 
strongly  prohibited  by  their  canons  and  vows, 
and  the  Jesuits  do  not  fail  to  have  their  place 
among  the  rest. 

To-day,  Jlohamed  AH  came  for  the  first 
time  to  visit  our  vessel,  accompanied  by  sev- 
eral Egyptian  and  European  officers.  He  is  a 
fine  old  man,  with  white  hair  and  beard,  a 
commanding  and  noble  countenance,  and  a 
look  proud  and  piercing.  He  seemed  pre- 
occupied by  serious  thoughts,  although  the  last 
news  from  Syria  was  most  satisfactory.  He 
asked  our  captain  what  was  said  of  him  in 
Italy  ;  to  which  the  captain  replied  that, "  in  the 
opinion  of  the  public,  the  war  of  Egypt  and 
Syria  was  just ;  that  the  Ottoman  Porte  had  no 
right  over  those  countries,  and  that  the  glorious 
army  of  his  majesty  would  finish  by  obliging 
the  great  Sultan  to  recognize  their  indepen- 
dence." "  Yes,"  said  Mohamed  Ali,  "  I  have 
given  orders  to  my  son,  Ibrahim  Pacha,  not  to 
stop  until  he  reaches  Constantinople,  and  if 
he  accomplishes  this,  then  Egypt  shall  give 
laws  to  Turkey.  But  that  which  perplexes 
tne  is  the  infamous  and  unjust  inter\'ention  of 
England,  of  Russia,  of  Prussia,  and  of  Austria, 
who  will  never  permit  me  to  reach  Byzantium." 
"  But,"  said  the  captain,  "  France  seems  to 
have  adopted  your  policy,  and  to  have  decided 
to  defend  you."  "That,  indeed,  might  hap- 
pen," replied  the  pacha,  "  if  the  minister  of 
foreign  afikirs  could  act  as  he  wishes,  but  I 
have  no  confidence  in  King  Philip.  He  fears 
to  give  the  signal  of  war,  and  I  should  not 
be  surprised  w^ere  he  to  unite  himself  to  the 
allied  powers." 

He  visited  and  examined  every  part  of  the 
vessel,  and  pronounced  it  not  only  elegant,  but 
well  suited  to  sustain  a  combat.  He  was  sur- 
prised that  in  Italy  should  be  constructed 
steamers  so  large  and  fine.  "  Had  I,"  said  he, 
"twenty  such  ships  of  war  as  this,  I  should  fear 


neither  the  allied  powers  nor  any  other  enemy. 
By  land  and  sea  I  would,  in  a  few  days,  reach 
Constantinople,  raise  all  Turkey  in  revolt 
against  the  Czar  of  Russia,  and  retake  the 
provinces  which  he  has  conquered."  After  a 
moment  of  silence,  he  exclaimed,  "  Very  well, 
captain  ;  to-day  you  will  receive  the  coal  arnd 
provisions  which  you  need,  and  to-morrow  de- 
part for  Beyroot  with  dispatches  and  ammuni- 
tion." The  papers  were  for  Ibrahim  Pacha, 
commander-in-chief  of  the  Syrian  army.  He 
had  orders  to  reduce  all  Syria  to  obedience, 
and  to  disarm  the  Druses,  in  case  these  latter 
refused  to  lay  down  their  arms,  Ibrahim  was  to 
march  against  them  with  an  army  of  50,000 
men,  and  to  exterminate  them  or  drive  them  to 
the  mountains.  We  had  taken  on  board  600 
Arab  soldiers,  to  be  left  at  JaSa,  and  from 
thence  to  follow  us  to  Beyroot.  We  passed 
before  Aboukir,  where  Nelson  destroyed  the 
fleet  of  the  French  republic.  One  still  may 
see,  in  times  of  calm,  the  wrecks  of  these 
famous  vessels,  which  sustained  so  happily,  for 
a  time,  the  thundering  fire  of  the  English  fleet. 
Here  we  spread  our  sails  for  deeper  seas,  for 
the  coasts  of  Egypt  and  of  Palestine  are  very 
dangerous  under  cloudy  skies.  After  36  hours' 
sail  in  stormy  and  horrible  weather,  we  reached 
Jaffa,  landed  the  soldiers,  and  sought  again  the 
sea.  How  many  associations  are  awakened 
by  these  shores  from  Dalraatia  to  Beyroot !  All 
the  facts  that  sacred  and  ancient  history  reveals 
were  present  with  me.  Here  were  accom- 
plished the  greatest  deeds  and  the  sacred  mys- 
teries of  the  Hebrew  religion,  and  here  Chris- 
tianity originated  and  triumphed.  Then  and 
there  too,  I  thought  of  those  formidable  and  in- 
vincible Roman  Legions  which  destroyed 
Jerusalem  and  its  temple ;  then  of  tlie  crusades 
which  desolated  this  land,  in  order  to  conquer 
the  sepulchre  and  the  hallowed  ground  around 
it ;  of  Napoleon,  who,  in  the  name  of  liberty, 
wislied  to  subdue  Egypt  and  Syria  ;  and  now 
again,  bloodshed  was  there,  and  war  was  rav- 
aging these  countries,  once  the  home  of  peace, 
religion,  love  and  brotherhood.  In  vain  may 
you  now  seek,  on  all  these  shores,  one  sitjgle 
monument  of  ancient  days.  All  have  disap- 
peared ;  all  sleep  in  desolation  and  in  ruin  ! 

The  night  that  we  lefl  Jafia,  the  sea  was 
boisterous,  the  north-east  wind  howled  fiercely, 
the  rain  and  hail  fell  in  torrents,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  all  nature  was  on  the  point  of  dissolu- 
tion. It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  brave  the 
wind  and  waves  in  order  to  avoid  the  coasts  of 


96 


THE    DRAGON    OF    VINCENNES. 


Syria.  The  sea  ran  mountain  high,  the  bil- 
lows sometimes  carrying  us  to  their  utmost 
height,  only  to  cast  us  the  deeper  in  their  pro- 
found abysses,  while  their  ebb  seemed  ready  to 
ingulf  us.  The  heavens  were  only  bright- 
ened by  the  lightning's  flash,  followed  by  yet 
greater  darkness  and  terrific  thunder,  while  the 
sulphuric  foam  of  the  waves,  in  the  obscurity, 
made  them  appear  like  vast  masses  of  fire, 
cast  upon  the  surface  of  the  waters.  Happily 
our  vessel  was  strong,  and  furnished  with  so 
superior  an  engine,  that  we  were  soon  some  fifty 
miles  from  the  .  coast.  Had  it  not  been 
thus,  doubtless  I  might  have  served  as  a  break- 
fast, most  rcc/ierchi,  to  some  dainty  monster  of 
the  deep.  Beyroot  has  no  port,  but  simply  a 
road — dangerous,  full  of  rocks  and  perils,  for 
the  vessels  which  approach  it.  The  city  was 
in  a  state  of  war,  well  fortified,  and  furnished 
with  artillery,  and  there  too  might  have  been 
seen  the  army  prepared  for  the  strife.  What 
enthusiasm  in  my  soul,  how  much  was  my  im- 
agination excited,  when  the  pilot  pointed  out  to 
me,  from  afar,  the  whitened  crests  of  Lebanon, 
and  as  we  neared  the  shore,  more  and  more  pow- 
erful became  the  perfume  of  the  verdant  cedars, 
which,  in  descending,  one  may  see  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  valleys,  while  each  high  mountain 
seems  to  extend  toward  the  other  a  hand,  and 


form  around  Syria  a  single  chain,  making  it  u 
nest  of  cedar-wood  and  perfume.  Ibrahim 
Pacha  was  in  the  city  on  our  arrival,  and  re- 
ceived most  gladly  our  difipatches,  and  seemed 
pleased  to  learn  that  we  had  left  600  men  at 
Jaffa. 

The  Druses  had  nearly  all  laid  down  their 
arms,  and  Syria  was  almost  entirely  conquered. 
Misery  and  the  exorbitant  taxes  of  Ibrahim 
had  begun  to  ruin  the  country.  The  people 
spoke  of  him  as  most  cruel  and  hard-hearted  ; 
a  brave  soldier,  famous  warrior ;  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  the  life  of  camps  and  to  privations  ; 
yet  as  one  who  drank  wine,  contrary  to  the 
orders  of  Mohamed,  and  who  lived  more  like 
a  European  than  a  Mussulman,  having  with 
him  his  wife  and  children,  a  few  slaves,  but  no 
concubines,  like  the  other  princes  professing 
the  same  religion. 

To-morrow  we  return  to  Alexandria.  The 
English  steamer  arrived  from  Smyrna,  tells  us 
of  the  departure  of  the  Turkish  fleet  from  Con- 
stantinople, to  reduce  to  obedience  Mohamed 
Ali. 

Ibrahim  says  he  shall  go,  in  a  few  days,  to 
attack  the  Turkish  army,  which  wishes  to  con- 
quer Syria. 

Adieu,  Beyroot ;  once  more  en  route  for 
Alexandria,  and  hastening  to  a  wild  battle-scene. 


STtanslatcH    from    tfte    ffvenc\>. 

BY    ANNE     O.    LYNCH. 


If  prudery  and  pretension  are  displeasing 
in  a  woman,  ignorance  and  rudeness  are  still 
more  revolting.  Nature  has  given  to  each  sex 
the  attributes  which  belong  to  it;  she  has  traced 
the  path  which  it  is  permitted  to  each  one 
to  take,  and  marked  the  limits  which  tliey 
cannot  transcend.  Youth  and  beauty  must  be 
accompanied  by  gentleness  and  modesty,  and 
they  belong  inseparably  to  the  period  of  maid- 
enhood. 

M.  de  Francastel,  an  officer  in  the  French  ser- 
vice, had  returned  to  his  native  country,  having 


been  absent  from  his  family  for  a  period  of  ten 
years.  lie  inhabited  a  fine  country-seat  situated 
near  the  chateau  of  Vincennes,  wlierc  he  qui- 
etly enjoyed  a  comfortable  fortune,  the  fruits  of 
his  long  services,  and  where  he  endeavored  to 
repair  the  faults  in  the  education  of  his  only 
daughter  Cornelia,  whom  he  found  far  from 
being  worthy  of  the  respectable  name  to  which 
she  had  been  born.  Deprived  of  her  mother  at 
the  age  of  four  years,  she  had  been  confided  to 
the  care  of  an  old  nurse,  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
keepers  of  the  chateau  of  Vincennes.    Brought 


THE    DRAGOX    OF    VIxNCENNES. 


97 


up  from  that  tender  age  in  the  midst  of  a  mili- 
tarv  corps,  she  was  accustomed  from  infancy 
to  use  the  most  unbecoming  expressions,  and  to 
indulge  in  the  most  unpardonable  rudeness  of 
manner. 

M.  de  Francastel  ia  vain  endeavored  to 
counteract  these  early  impressions  and  to  cor- 
rect the  evil  habits  into  which  she  had  fallen. 
She  was  constantly  seen  carrying  heavy  bur- 
dens, disputing  with  the  children  of  the  village, 
which  she  would  often  seize  and  throw  down 
without  scruple,  and  then  with  her  hair  flying 
loose,  her  hat  torn,  and  her  garments  soiled  and 
disordered,  would  return  home.  There  she  would 
scale  the  walls  and  climb  the  highest  trees  to 
gather  fruit  or  to  rifle  the  birds'  nests,  or  descend- 
ing to  the  lower  court  armed  with  a  spade,  she 
would  dig  and  carry  earth  to  the  garden,  or 
entering  the  stables,  she  would  prepare  the 
litter  for  the  animals,  winnow  the  oats,  tor- 
ment the  horses,,  and  finally  mounting  one 
without  saddle  she  would  gallop  through  all 
the  environs  now  shouting  and  now  swearing. 
Such  was  her  reputation  that  she  every  where 
received  the  appellation  of  the  Dragon  of  Vin- 
cennes. 

Notwithstanding  this  wildness  and  extrava- 
gance of  manner,  Cornelia  possessed  some  of 
the  finest  qualities  of  the  heart.  If  any  dispute 
arose  in  the  village  she  immediately  put  herself 
on  the  side  of  the  weakest,  and  by  her  boldness 
and  address  effected  a  reconciliation.  If  some 
unfortunate  man  was  ill,  disabled  or  unable  to 
work,  Cornelia  would  seek  him  out,  and  supply 
all  his  necessities ;  she  had  often  been  known  to 
rake  off"  her  o)vn  clothing  to  cover  the  rags 
of  indigence  or  to  bind  up  the  wound  of  some 
sufferer.  If  in  her  excursions — which  she 
always  made  dressed  as  an  amazon,  a  fowling- 
piece  in  her  hand,  and  a  game-bag  on  her  back 
— she  encountered  a  vehicle  made  fast  in  some 
deep  rut,  she  put  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel  at 
the  risk  of  covering  herself  with  mud  from  head 
to  foot,  of  skinning  her  hands  and  dislocating 
her  arms.  If  some  young  shepherd  had  lost 
a  lamb,  or  a  sheep,  in  the  immense  forest  of 
Vincennes,  she  aided  him  in  scouring  all  the 
paths  of  the  wood,  which  she  knew  better  than 
any  one,  nor  did  she  return  without  bringing 
with  her  the  wanderer  whose  loss  had  caused 
such  uneasiness.  In  a  word,  she  was  an  indis- 
cribable  mixture  of  sweetness  and  rudeness,  of 
patience  and  courage. 

If  her  manners  and  language  repulsed  at 
first,  her  goodness,  her  devotion,  and  frankness 


in  the  end  cc«iciliated  all  hearts.  Her  features, 
although  brown  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the 
forced  marches  she  made  every  day,  were  of 
remarkable  regularity  and  wore  an  expression 
which  was  irresistibly  fascinating.  Her  figure 
was  rounded  and  majestic,  and  her  bearing 
noble  and  imposing.  Her  continual  exercise 
in  the  open  air  had  so  augmented  her  strength 
and  hastened  her  development,  that  although 
scarcely  beyond  the  period  of  girlhood  she 
appeared  almost  in  the  vigor  of  womanhood. 

M.  de  Francastel  vainly  employed  all  the 
means  imaginable  to  overcome  the  strange  hab- 
its of  his  daughter,  so  little  in  accordance  with 
her  sex  and  condition.  But  no  sooner  was  she 
placed  in  the  best  institutions  for  education, 
than  she  scaled  the  walls  of  the  garden  and 
returned  to  Vincennes.  If  he  took  to  his  house 
some  amiable  and  dignified  instructress,  Cor- 
nelia found  means  of  defying  her  authority  and 
eluding  her  vigilance.  If  a  servant  was  sent 
to  follow  her,  she  amused  herself  by  leading  him 
astray  in  the  woods  and  by  such  fatiguing  routes 
that  he  was  forced  to  rest  for  a  moment,  when 
she  took  the  opportunity  to  escape  from  his 
sight.  To  hunt,  to  dig,  to  run,  to  feed  the  do- 
mestic animals,  and  to  follow  the  calls  of  bene- 
volence, such  were  the  peculiar  occupations  of 
the  Dragon  of  Vincennes.  The  exercise  of  the 
needle,  music,  dancing,  above  all,  the  least 
study,  were  to  her  an  insupportable  scourge,  to 
which  she  had  not  the  least  power  or  inclination 
to  subject  herself;  and  although  now  on  the 
point  of  attaining  her  fifteenth  year  she  was  in 
the  most  absolute  ignorance,  not  knowing  even 
how  to  read. 

M.  de  Francastel,  finding  all  remonstrance 
vain,  and  having  made  every  effort  to  reclaim 
his  daughter  that  paternal  love  could  inspire, 
resolved  to  wait  time  and  reflection.  He 
feigned  to  leave  Cornelia  to  herself,  and  to  be 
the  first  to  laugh  at  the  numberless  freaks  and 
caprices  of  her  whom  he  himself  called  the 
Dragon  of  Vincennes. 

Destiny,  which  often  ser\-es  us  better  than 
the  plans  we  most  skillfully  project,  came  to  the 
succor  of  this  tender  father,  and  furnished  him 
the  occasion  of  combating  successfully  the 
masculine  habits  of  his  daughter.  The  chateau 
of  Vincennes  had  been  for  many  months  used  as 
a  state  prison..  Situated  in  the  centre  of  an 
immense  and  fertile  plain  bordered  by  a  forest 
surrounded  by  the  richest  villages,  it  offered  to 
those  unfortunates,  whom  the  great  interests  of 
the  state  deprived  of  their  liberty,  pure  air,  an 


1)3 


THE     DRAGON    OF    VINCENNES. 


extended  horizon,  a  charming  view,  and  in  a 
word  all  that  could  diminish  the  sufferings  of 
their  captivity. 

One  evening  as  Cornelia  returned  from  hunt- 
ing in  the  forest  of  Vincennes,  she  perceived, 
in  passing,  at  the  foot  of  the  great  tower  of  the 
chateau,  a  little  rush  basket  which  descended 
from  tlie  gratings  of  one  of  the  windows  along 
the  wall,  by  means  of  several  strips  of  linen 
tied  together.  She  watched  till  the  basket  was 
within  her  reach,  when  she  perceived  within  it 
a  note,  which  she  seized  eagerly,  saying  to 
herself,  "  Without  doubt  some  one  within  re- 
quires aid,  or  perhaps  wishes  to  communicate 
some  important  intelligence.  Morhleu!  that  I 
should  not  know  how  to  read  !  and  at  my  age, 
and  the  daughter  of  an  old  captain  !  How  do 
I  at  this  moment  curse  my  idleness,  and  my 
stupid  liead.  And  perhaps  the  unfortunate 
prisoner  who  needs  my  assistance  has  but  a 
moment,  a  single  moment.  Morbleu  !  that  I 
should  not  know  how  to  read !" 

Attracted  by  the  singularity  of  this  adven- 
ture, and  more  still  by  her  natural  disposition  to 
oblige,  Cornelia,  reflecting,  in  spite  of  her  ha- 
bitual heedlessness,  that  it  would  be  dangerous, 
under  these  circumstances,  to  commit  the  least 
indiscretion,  resolved  to  reveal  the  secret  only 
to  lier  father,  and  to  suffer  no  one  else  to  read 
the  writing.  She  flew  to  his  side  and  recount- 
ed all  that  had  passed. 

M.  de  Francastel  took  the  note  from  the 
hand.s  of  his  daughter,  and  read  as  follows : 
"  Can  an  old  officer  hope  that  you  will  have 
the  courage  to  render  him  an  important  ser- 
vice ?" 

"  Yes,  parbleu,  I  have  the  courage  for  it," 
cried  Cornelia. 

"  Answer  me,  I  entreat,  on  the  back  of  this 
note,  and,  for  a  signal,  pull  slightly  the  basket, 
which  will  bring  me  your  reply." 

"  Yes,  quick,  dearest  father,  write  in  my 
name — Rely  on  me," 

"Stop  a  moment,  my  daughter;  to  succor 
the  unfortunate  is  a  sacred  duty,  we  know,  but 
to  favor  a  prisoner  of  state,  whom  we  do  not 
know,  whose  projects  we  are  unacquainted 
with" 

"  What  matters  that?"  replie(^  Cornelia  eager- 
ly, "  he  says  he  has  need  of  my  aid  in  an  impr- 
tant  service,  and  how  can  I  resist  that  ?  and 
besides,  he  is  an  old  man.  Fancy  thyself, 
my  father,  to  be  in  the  place  of  tliis  veteran, 
wouidst  thou  not  be  afflicted  by  such  a  stern 
refusal  ?      Do  not  prevent  thy  daughter  from 


doing  a  good  action.  Answer  quickly,  tliat  he 
may  command  me.  Alas  !  that  I  cannot  do  it 
myself — that  I  can  neither  read  nor  write." 

M.  de  Francastel,  affected  by  the  generosilyj 
of  his  daughter,  and  conceiving  a  project  thatf 
would  make  an  impression  upon  her,  determin- 
ed to  write  as  she  had  dictated.  Cornelia 
seized  the  note  and  returned  with  all  speed  tc 
the  foot  of  the  great  tower,  following  the  direc* 
tions  of  the  prisoner. 

The  little  basket  was  immediately  drawn  upl 
and  soon  descended  again,  containing  an  un.4 
sealed  packet,  which  Cornelia  took  to  her  fatheri| 
On  the  packet  were  written  these  words 
"  Read^  and  Heaven  revjard  you  /"  and  or 
opening  it  M.  de  Francastel  found  that  it  con- 
tained the  minature  of  a  venerable  old  man,  in] 
the  uniform  of  a  general,  and  the  followingj 
letter : 

"My  dear  Daughter — One  of   our   pri^ 
soners  has  painted  this  picture,  which  I  intend-- 
ed  to  give  thee  at  our  first  interview  ;  but  thy| 
long  illness  having  deprived  me  of  tliat  happi- 
ness until  to-day,  I  have  wished  that  it  should 
reach  thee   on  the  anniversary  of  thy  birthJ 
May  I  not  be  disappointed  in  this  hope.     The| 
means  I  have  employed  are  rather  strange  i 
but,  however  impenetrable  may  be  the  fortress| 
where   I  am  inclosed,  there   wander  near  it 
sometimes  protecting  angels  of  the  unfortunate,| 
and  it  is  one  of  these  who  bears  to  thee 
message.     Bless  thou  this  ministering  spirit  aa 
I  bless  it ;  kiss  a  thousand  times  thy  old  fathei 
in  this  portrait,  love  him  always,  take  couragej 
and  believe  that,  under  a  just  monarch,  innc 
cence  will  triumph  sooner  or  later  over  calur 
ny  and  falsehood.  S  *  *." 

Below  was  written  :  "  I  have  no  books  and 
I  see  neither  fruits  nor  flowers."     The  letteJ 

was  addressed  to  the  "  Countess  de  ,  1^ 

St.  Dominic  street." 

"  I   mount  my  horse   and  I  fly,"  exclaimed| 
Cornelia. 

"  Softly,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father,  "  re* 
member  tint  if  you  commit  a  single  impru- 
dence vdiir  i>nit6g6  is  lost,  and  wc  are  lostalsoJ 
I  kmi  V  your  recklessness.  This  countess^ 
wli(w(>  iiiime  even  we  do  not  know,  must  be| 
appnvichcd  with  caution  ;  we  must  consider  her 
ilhiess  and  her  consequent  sensibility.  It  is 
far  belter  for  you  to  entrust  the  messajrc  \o  me." 

'•  I   recognize  my   noble  father  here,"   an- 
swered Cornelia,  covering  him   with   kisses. 


THE    DRAGON    OF    MNCENNES. 


39 


"  Go  and  give  happiness  and  life  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  my  dear  old  prisoner,  and  I,  in  the  mean 
time,  will  supply  him  with  whatever  else  he  may 
need." 

Scarcely  had  M.  de  Francastel  departed 
alone  for  Paris  than  Cornelia  hastened  to  ga- 
ther the  most  beautiful  flowers,  and  die  finest 
fruits,  to  which  >he  added  some  books  from  the 
library  of  her  father,  and  thus  supplied,  she 
again  sought  the  prison.  The  little  basket  de- 
scended more  than  once,  and  the  prisoner  found  \ 
himself  amply  provided  with  all  that  he  could  ! 
wish  ;  but  as  the  ignorance  of  the  Dragon  of  ; 
Vincennei  equalled  her  goodness  of  heart,  the 
poor  recluse  found  in  the  books  which  were 
offered  him  to  beguile  his  leisure  hours,  only  a 
Treatise  on  Heraldry,  a  Royal  Almanac,  and 
an  old  book  of  rendered  accounts  ;  the  young 
hoyden  having  taken  indiscriminately  the  first 
volumes  she  had  put  her  hand  upon.  The 
prisoner  could  not  conceal  his  surprise  ;  he  be- 
lieved at  first  that  it  was  some  pleasantry,  and 
fear-»d  that  he  had  misplaced  his  confidence, 
but  when  he  saw  the  beauty  of  the  fruits, 
and  the  choice  flowers  that  accompanied  this 
strange  collection,  he  no  longer  doubted  the 
zeal  and  the  interest  which  he  had  inspired. 

Cornelia,  believing  that  she  had  fulfilled  all 
the  wishes  of  the  prisoner,  returned  home  hap- 
py in  the  consciousness  of  what  she  had  done. 
M.  de  Francastel  hastened  home  from  Paris  to 
share  with  his  daughter  the  pleasure  he  had 
received  in  being  the  bearer  of  the  message, 
and  the  benedictions  with  which  he  had  been 
overwhelmed.  He  brought  with  him  a  letter 
for  the  old  general,  which  Cornelia  charged 
herself  with  the  delivery  of  the  next  evening, 
at  the  accustomed  hour,  promising  herself  to 
accompany  this  treasure  with  a  supply  of 
choice  fruits  and  fresh  flowers. 

M.  de  Francastel,  who,  during  his  absence 
had  reflected  on  the  project  which  he  had 
formed  for  drawing  Cornelia  from  her  present 
life  and  habits,  to  those  more  becoming  her  sex 
and  station,  was  now  only  waiting  to  put  it 
into  execution.  Admitted,  from  his  distin- 
guished po:^ition.  to  the  society  of  the  Governor 
of  Viuconnes,  he  took  occasion,  while  Cornelia 
was  engaged  with  thn  |  risoner  at  the  foot  of 
the  gr'«3t  tower,  to  conc-rt  his  plans  with  the 
governor  and  to  entre.it  him  to  second  his  de- 
signs. Of  what  t  tforts  and  what  sacrifices  is 
not  the  heart  of  a  father  capable ! 

Cornelia  having  made  her  offerings,  and 
placed  in  the  bisket  the  letter  her  father  had 


given  her,  returned  more  joyous  and  more  wild 
than  ever,  carrying  in  her  arms  five  or  six  vol- 
umes, which  the  prisoner  had  returned  to  her, 
and  to  which  was  attached  a  little  note,  which 
read  thus : 

"  I  return  you  the  books  that  you  have  given 
me  to  read.  I  am  too  old  to  be  instructed  in 
heraldry,  and  I  have  no  accounts  to  render." 

This  was  soon  explained  by  M.  de  Fran- 
cr^tel,  who,  on  examining  the  volumes  that 
Cornelia  had  carried  in  triumph,  could  not  re- 
strain his  laughter,  while  he  explained  to  her 
the  absurdity  of  the  amusement  she  had  pro- 
cured for  her  venerable  protegi. 

"  What,"  said  Cornelia,  reddening  with  spite 
and  shame,  "  have  I  offered  to  the  honorable  old 
man  an  almanac  and  an  account-book  ?  He 
might  have  thought  that  I  wished  to  insult  his 
misfortunes.  Morbleu .'  that  I  should  not 
know  how  to  read." 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  said  M.  de  Francastel 
emphatically  ;  "  I  have  employed  all  means  that 
patience  and  paternal  tenderness  could  suggest, 
to  enlighten  thy  ignorance,  and  to  draw  thee 
from  the  darkness  into  which  thou  art  hope- 
lessly plunged." 

"  Oh,  do  not  distress  thyself,  my  dear  father," 
answered  Cornelia ;  "  every  one  knows  that 
thou  canst  not  be  reproached  with  the  faults  ot 
my  education.  It  is  painful  for  thee  and  revolt- 
ing to  all  the  world,  and  I  begin  now  to  per- 
ceive it  myself.  Oh,  if  I  could  recall  my  lost 
time !  If  my  heart  could  once  command  my 
head !" 

These  words,  uttered  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
frankness  and  repentance,  were  a  happy  pre- 
sage for  M.  de  Francastel,  and  rendered  him 
still  more  intent  to  pursue  the  plan  he  had 
devised. 

The  next  morning,  in  breakfasting  with  his 
daughter,  he  returned  to  the  conversation  of 
the  evening  before,  and  they  had  already  begun 
to  speak  of  the  pleasures  of  a  cultivated  mind 
and  taste,  and  above  all,  of  those  qualities  most 
essential  in  a  woman,  when  the  governor  of  the 
chateau  entered  with  a  grave  and  mysterious 
air,  and  requested  to  speak  with  them  in  pri- 
vate. 

No  sooner  were  they  alone  than  the  gover- 
nor, expressing  the  regret  with  which  he  com- 
municated his  orders,  announced  to  them  the 
object  of  his  visit.  Drawing  a  paper  from  his 
vest,  he  presented  it  to  M.  de  Francastel,  who 
troubled  and  embarrassed,  opened  it  and  read 
as  follows : 


^  ^.   /Sa^Ar^ 


100 


THE    DRAGON    OF    VINCENNES. 


"  In  consequence  of  information  received  of 
the  conduct  of  M.  de  Francastel,  captain  in 
the  service,  who,  in  contempt  of  orders,  com- 
municates secretly  with  the  prisoners  of  state 
confined  in  the  fortress  of  Vincennes,  who  has 
been  the  bearer  of  secret  letters  to  Paris,  and 
returned  answers  by  the  hand  of  his  daughter, 
Cornelia  do  Francastel,  who  was  seen  in  par- 
ticular, last  evening,  depositing  many  articles 
in  a  basket,  which  was  lifted  from  within  to 
the  summit  of  the  great  tower — it  is  ordered  to 
tbe  Governor  of  Vincennes  to  secure  the  per- 
sons of  M.  and  Mdlle.  de  Francastel,  and  to  con- 
fine them  secretly  in  the  said  fortress  until  fur- 
ther information  be  received. 

"  By  order  of  the  Minister  of  War." 

"  Is  it  a  crime,"  said  Cornelia,  with  sparkling 
eyes,  "  to  assist  a  venerable  old  man — to  pro- 
tect a  victim  of  calumny  ?  besides,  I  only  am 
culpable,  and  my  father  should  not  be  punished 
for  what  I  have  done,  and  what  I  am  ready  to 
do  again." 

"  It  is  useless  to  deny  that  I  am  thy  accom- 
plice," said  M.  de  Francastel  with  resignation, 
for  nothing  escapes  the  vigilant  eye  of  the 
government.  It  is  but  too  true  that  I  myself 
have  taken  the  letter  and  the  portrait  to  Paris, 
and  as  an  officer  I  have  committed  a  fault,  the 
chastisement  of  which  I  shall  support  with 
courage.     Sir,  I  am  ready  to  follow,  you." 

"  Thou  in  prison,  my  father !  and  shall  I 
suffer  it  ?  Ventrebleu .'  if  I  stir  an  inch  !" 

"  No  violence.  Mademoiselle,"  answered  the 
governor,  "  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to  employ 
force,  and  to  make  an  exposure  which  I  came 
in  this  way  purposely  to  avoid." 

"  How  is  that  ?"  said  M.  de  Francastel. 

The  governor  replied,  "  It  will  be  easy  for 
you,  under  the  pretext  of  a  journey  which  you 
are  ordered  to  make,  to  give  out  that  you  take 
Mdlle.  de  Francastel  with  you.  You  will  set 
out,  apparently  to  the  people  of  Vincennes,  and 
stop  at  Paris,  and  to-night,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
you  will  present  yourself  at  the  chateau,  where 
I  shall  wait  you  both.  Relying  on  your  loyalty, 
from  this  moment  I  consider  you  my  prisoner 
on  parole." 

Pressing  the  hand  of  the  governor,  the  cap- 
tain replied,  "  Believe  that  I  shall  be  failliful  to 
my  duty,  and  accept  my  thanks  for  the  zeal 
and  interest  you  have  shown  me  on  this  occa- 
sion." 

"  At  eleven,  then,  precisely,"  added  the 
governor,  in  going  out,  "  I  shall  be  at  the  first 


entrance  of  the  fortress,  and  shall  conduct  you 
privately  to  the  apartments  prepared  for  your 
reception." 

Cornelia,  finding  herself  alone  with  her 
father,  abandoned  herself  to  her  despair.  "Is 
it  thus,"  she  exclaimed,  "tiiat  I  repay  thy  ten- 
derness and  thy  care,  by  depriving  thee  of  thy 
liberty,  forcing  thee  from  this  delightful  home 
and  from  thy  cherished  habits,  and  dragging 
thee  to  a  slavery  that  may  shorten  thy  days.  I 
restrained  my  tears  before  this  cursed  gover- 
nor, to  prove  to  him  that,  like  thee,  I  am  pos- 
sessed of  force  and  courage ;  but  my  heart  is 
oppressed  with  grief,  and  tears  of  surprise,  of 
remorse  and  rage  escape  from  my  eyes.  Oh, 
my  father  !  my  good  father  !  I  suffer  inexpres- 
sibly." 

"We  must  submit  to  the  decrees  of  destiny," 
answered  M.  de  Francastel,  suppressing  all 
that  passed  in  his  heart ;  "  I  little  expected 
that  after  sixty  years  passed  in  honorable  ser- 
vice, I  should  at  last  be  confounded  with  those 
who  betray  their  prince  and  their  country.  But 
banish  these  painful  thoughts  and  let  us  think 
only  of  our  departure." 

Cornelia,  bathed  in  tears,  hastily  made  the 
necessary  preparations  for  their  departure. 
M.  de  Francastel,  on  his  side,  ordered  his 
travelling-carriage  and  post-horses,  and  in- 
formed his  people  and  those  of  the  neigborhood 
that  he  was  about  to  travel — as  had  been  agreed 
between  him  and  the  governor — and  in  the 
evening,  at  the  appointed  hour,  he  returned  to 
the  chateau  of  Vincennes,  with  Cornelia.  She 
passed  the  first  night  of  her  captivity  in  the 
most  cruel  agitation,  reproaching  herself  con- 
stantly for  the  imprisonment  of  her  father, 
whom  she  promised  not  to  leave  for  an  instant. 

The  next  morning,  M.  de  Francastel  ap- 
proached the  bed  of  his  daughter,  who  had  not 
closed  her  eyes  during  the  night,  and  endea- 
vored to  calm  her  agitation,  and  quiet  the  re- 
morse with  which  she  was  overwhelmed. 

"  No,"  she  cried, "  it  is  useless ;  I  shall  never 
be  consoled  for  having  deprived  my  worthy 
father  of  his  liberty." 

"  It  belongs  to  thee,  my  daughter,"  he  re- 
plied, "  to  atone  for  it  amply,  and  to  make  me 
bless  my  captivity.  Let  me  but  enlighten  the 
ignorance  in  which  thou  hast  until  now  been 
plunged — let  us  employ  the  time  we  are  to  pass 
in  this  fortress  in  study — and  I  promise  tliec 
that  within  its  thick  walls  we  shall  find  true  en- 
joyment, and  an  ample  recompense  for  the  fate 
that  has  overwhelmed  us." 


THE    DRAGON    OF    VINCBNN|33. 


101 


"  Thou  foreseest  my  dearest  wish,"  answered 
Cornelia,  embracing  him  a  thousand  times. 
"From  this  day  I  am  thy  scholar,  submis- 
sive and  obedient.  Now  I  will  repair  all  my 
errors,  become  worthy  of  being  tliy  daughter, 
and  of  rendering  thee,  even  in  thy  captivity, 
the  happiest  of  fathers.'' 

Cornelia  faithfully  fulfilled  her  promise. 
The  morbleu  and  venirehleu,  and  all  those  low 
expressions  which  continually  escaped  her,  no 
longer  soiled  her  rosy  lips.  The  boy's  clothing 
which  she  often  wore,  and  all  her  amazonian 
costume  were  replaced  by  a  becoming  and  la- 
dy-like apparel.  In  less  than  three  months  she 
learned  to  read  and  write,  and  she  soon  after 
commenced  the  study  of  historj',  of  language 
and  mythology,  and  her  progress  was  so  much 
the  more  rapid,  since  she  discovered  each 
day  new  pleasures  of  which  she  had  been  de- 
prived. By  degrees  her  bearing  became  mo- 
dest and  noble,  her  manners  winning,  and  her 
voice  sweet  and  insinuating.  In  short,  in  the 
course  of  six  months,  her  mind  had  become  so 
developed,  and  her  taste  so  cultivated,  that  she 
felt  herself  created  anew. 

Meantime  the  governor  having  announced 
that  his  orders  were  to  mitigate  as  much  as 
possible  the  imprisonment  of  Mdlle.  and  M.  de 
Francastel,  procured  for  them  all  the  diversions 
in  his  power.  They  were  permitted  to  walk  in 
the  gardens  of  the  chateau,  and  admitted  to  the 
brilliant  reunions  in  the  saloons  of  the  gover- 
nor, where  Cornelia  insensibly  acquired  the 
habits  and  manners  of  polished  society.  But 
what  pleased  her  above  all,  was  the  happiness 
she  felt  in  becoming  acquainted  with  the  vene- 
rable prisoner  who  had  been  the  object  of  her 
solicitude,  and  who,  convinced  that  he  was  the 
cause  of  her  imprisonment  and  that  of  her 
father,  could  not  find  words  to  express  his  cha- 
grin and  his  gratitude.  What  astonished  him 
above  all,  was,  that  the  sending  of  a  single  note, 
and  a  miniature,  could  be  construed  into  such 
an  offence,  and  tliat  the  generous  impulse  of  the 
daughter  should  be  punished  even«npon  her  fa- 
ther. 

The  governor  answered  to  all  these  com- 
plaints only  by  a  repressed  smile.  He  left  Gen- 
eral S.  free  communication  with  M.  and  Mdlle. 
de  Francastel,  and  his  profound  wisdom  and 
amiable  manners,  seconded  the  efforts  of  M.  de 
Francastel,  and  contributed  greatly  to  the  im- 
provement of  Cornelia,  whom  the  general  al- 
ways called  his  dear  victim,  and  on  whom  he 
constantly  lavished  every  mark  of  the  tenderest 


attachment  At  the  end  of  some  months,  the 
innocence  of  this  officer  was  recognized,  as  he 
had  predicted,  by  the  supreme  head  of  the 
state,  and  the  governor  joyfully  hastened  to 
announce  to  him  the  order  he  had  received  to 
liberate  him  immediately. 

"  Believe  me,  my  kind  friends,"  said  the  gen- 
eral to  his  fellow-prisoners,  "the  first  use  I 
shall  make  of  my  liberty  and  the  justice  I  have 
received,  will  be  to  solicit  it  for  you  and  to  ob- 
tain yourdeUverance." 

"  Your  wishes  have  been  anticipated,"  said 
the  governor,  « I  have  also  orders  to  liberate 
M.  and  Mdlle.  de  Francastel." 

"  What  do  I  hear,"  cried  Cornelia, "  my  good 
father  is  no  longer  deprived  of  his  liberty  ?" 

"  He  was  never  deprived  of  it,"  said  the  gov- 
ernor, "  it  was  his  tenderness  for  you  that  made 
him  my  prisoner.  Certain  that  he  could  never 
otherwise  overcome  the  vices  of  your  early 
education,  he  took  advantage  of  your  adven- 
ture with  the  general,  which  served  him  as  a 
pretext  to  concert  with  me  an  order  for  his  ar- 
rest, and,  renouncing  the  delights  of  his  home, 
the  intercourse  of  his  friends,  and  all  the  plea- 
sures of  his  existence,  he  has  had  the  courage 
to  shut  himself  in  this  prison,  in  order  to  de- 
velope  your  higher  qualities  and  to  render  you 
worthy  of  the  name  you  bear. 

No  sooner  had  the  governor  made  this 
astonishing  revelation,  than  Cornelia,  overcome 
with  emotion,  fell  into  the  arms  of  her  father, 
scarcely  breathing,  and  only  able  to  utter,  at 
intervals,  "  At  thy  age  to  support  such  a  slavery 
for  me !  Oh,  my  father  I  my  friend  !  my  guard- 
ian angel !  what  do  I  not  owe  thee  I" 

"  I  am  repaid  for  all  my  sacrifices,"  said  M.  de 
Francastel,  embracing  her  with  kisses  and  with 
tears.  "  I  have  overcome  the  habits  of  thy  in- 
fancy; I  have  led  thee  back  to  the  virtues 
which  characterize  thy  sex ;  I  have  developed 
the  qualities  which  nature  bestowed  on  thee, 
and  now  I  am  proud  and  happy  to  be  thy  father. 
Believe  me,  Cornelia,  this  year  of  captivity  is 
the  happiest  of  my  life." 

General  S.  joined  his  congratulations  with 
those  of  the  governor,  and  with  the  most  tender 
protestations  of  friendship  he  proposed  the  alli- 
ance of  his  only  son,  already  far  advanced  in 
the  career  of  arms,  with  Cornelia,  who,  each 
day  more  affected  by  the  touching  proof  of  her 
father's  love,  gave  herself  to  the  study  of  the 
arts  and  sciences  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
gratitude. 


IQI? 


VALLEY  A^D  CHURCH  OF  BOBI. 


¥A3LIL]IJY  AEW  (B lEIW  1  (D IHI  ©IF  IBdDM. 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  WALDENSES. 


BT   J.    T.    HEADLEY. 


The  church  and  valley  represented  in  the 
plate  have  borne  a  distinguished  part  in  the 
history  of  the  Waldenses.  This  valley  is  so 
shut  in  by  the  hills,  that  its  existence  cannot 
be  detected  by  the  traveller  till  it  bursts  at 
once  in  all  its  richness  and  beauty  upon  him. 
The  river  Pelice  and  its  tributaries  wind 
through  it,  lacing  its  meadows  with  silver 
veins,  while  all  around  stretches  a  border  of 
green  forest,  which  constitutes  the  wealth  of 
the  inhabitants. '  Dark  chestnuts  contrast  beau- 
tifully with  the  pale  willows  that  run  in  stripes 
across  the  meadows — huge  rocks  rise  along 
the  outskirts,  covered  with  moss,  on  the  top  of 
which  the  peasant  spreads  his  threshing-floor. 
Higher  up,  crag  beetles  over  crag — thunder- 
riven — here  leaning  threateningly  over  their 
bases,  and  there  towering  heavenward  like  the 
embattled  walls  and  turrets  of  some  feudal 
castle.  In  the  upper  end  of  the  valley  rises  one 
immense  rock,  a  mountain  in  itself.  In  some 
ancient  convulsion  it  spUt  at  the  summit,  leav- 
ing a  crack  through  which  the  blue  sky  beyond 
is  seen.  By  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees 
the  adventurous  traveller  can  approach  the 
edge  of  this  enormous  crevice,  when  lo  !  all 
the  valley  below  bursts  on  his  view.  There  it 
sleeps  in  the  summer  sunlight,  with  the  bright 
streamlets  sparkling  and  flashing  amid  the 
masses  of  green — men  and  cattle  are  seen  mov- 
ing across  it — the  peasant  is  laboring  in  the 
field — the  cart  trundling  along  the  highway— and 
yet  not  a  sound  reaches  the  spectator  lying  in 
the  shadow  of  the  huge  cliff".  Far,  far  below, 
like  pigmies,  the  inhabitants  are  toiling  in  the 
sun  ;  but  they  seem  as  objects  that  move  through 
a  dream,  so  noiseless  and  still  are  they.     Up 


that  serene  height  the  murmurs  of  the  valley 
never  come,  and  the  thunder  crash  and  scream 
of  the  Alpine  eagle  around  its  summit,  are  the 
only  sounds  that  disturb  its  repose.  This  old 
rock  was  once  made  the  chief  stronghold  of  the 
Vaudois,  when  they  fought  their  way  back  to 
their  valleys.  The  view  from  the  top  is  wonder- 
fully beautiful.  From  the  margin  of  the  valley 
to  the  Po,  the  whole  expanse  is  distinctly  seen. 
Snow-capt  mountains  piercing  the  heavens 
with  their  shining  helmets — peaks  on  peaks 
rolling  in  an  endless  sea  of  heights  along  the 
horizon,  combine  to  render  it  a  scene  of  inde- 
scribable interest.  But  the  rock  itself  is  a  strik- 
ing object  when  viewed  from  the  valley  ;  espe- 
cially at  evening,  when  the  sun  is  going  to  its 
lordly  repose  amidst  the  hills,  does  its  colossal 
form  stand  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  cloud- 
less heavens.  Its  ragged  outline  is  subdued 
and  softened — its  black  surface  covered  with 
rose  tints — and  it  looks  like  a  glorious  pyramid 
of  light  and  beauty  there  over  the  plain  slum- 
bering in  deep  shadow  beneath.  Gradually 
the  gorgeous  hues  disappear  ;  the  stars  displace 
the  sun,  and  the  moon  rising  in  the  east,  makes 
that  stern  rock  darker  than  at  mid-day. 

The  picturesque  little  church  given  in  the 
plate,  has  boane  its  part  in  the  struggle  of  the 
Waldenses.  With  the  rocks  around  it,  and  the 
mountains  above,  it  has  rung  to  the  prayer  of 
the  persecuted  Christian,  the  war-cry  of  his 
murderers,  and  the  clash  of  arms.  Solemn 
vows  have  been  repeated  there,  and  on  its  very 
tiiresliold  men  and  women  been  butchered  with 
worse  than  savage  barbarity. 

The  whole  liistory  of  the  Waldenses  has 
been  marked  by  j)er8ecutions  carried  on  in  a 


t 


1 


VALLEY  AND  CHURCH  OF  BOBL 


103 


spirit  of  ferocity  and  cruelty,  and  accompanied 
by  outrages  so  fiendish,  as  almost  to  transcend 
himian  belief. 

About  the  year  1200  the  persecutions  com- 
menced, and  with  greater  or  less  intervals,  and 
more  or  less  cruelty,  have  continued  till  this 
time.  The  inquisition  first  slew  its  victims  si- 
lently, but  in  1 488  open  force  was  used,  and 
the  soldiery  sent  against  the  peasants.  From 
that  time  on,  the  sword  has  been  the  instru- 
ment of  the  persecutor.  Whole  valleys  have 
been  depopulated,  and  the  inhabitants  driven 
into  caverns,  and  there  suffocated  with  smoke. 
Hundreds  of  children  have  been  found  dead  to- 
gether, some  mangled  in  the  most  inhuman 
manner.  The  young  women  were  ravished 
in  presence  of  their  fathers  and  brothers,  and 
then  brutally  murdered.  ]\len  were  hurled 
from  the  cliffs,  and  tortures  and  violence  un- 
paralleled endured,  till  these  Protestant  valleys 
were  soaked  in  blood,  and  the  hill-sides  covered 
with  the  bones  of  thousands  of  the  inhabitants. 
Decency  forbids  us  to  name  the  enormities 
practised  on  this  unoffending  people,  because 
they  chose  to  worship  God  according  to  their 
own  consciences. 

But  in  the  persecution  of  1 655,  set  on  foot 
by  tlie  Duke  of  Savoy,  Bobi  bore  a  more  impor- 
tant part  than  in  those  which  preceded.  The 
mere  recital  of  the  sanguinary  scenes  which 
were  enacted  would  freeze  the  blood.  Horrors 
unheard  of  except  in  the  history  of  the  Romish 
Church  were  perpetrated  in  presence  of  the 
civilized  world,  rntil  Cromwell,  then  wielding 
the  power  of  England,  uttered  his  stern  remon- 
strance, declaring  he  would  put  a  stop  to  them 
if  he  had  to  sail  his  ships  over  the  Alps  to  ac- 
complish the  object.  It  began  by  the  invasion 
of  the  Waldensian  territory  with  a  large  French 
army.  Against  this  powerful  array  it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  Christians  could  contend. 
Nevertheless  they  bravely  rallied,  and  after 
kneeling  in  solemn  prayer  to  God,  fell  on  the 
enemy  with  such  enthusiasm  and  terror,  that, 
though  outnumbered  a  hundred  to  one,  they  broke 
their  ranks  in  pieces,  and  sent  them  shattered 
and  discomfited  back.  The  Marquis  of  Pian- 
nesse  seeing  that  they  were  not  to  be  overcome 
by  arms,  resorted  to  duplicity,  and  calling  to 
him  deputies  from  the  different  valleys,  pro- 
mised them  peace  and  security.  The  only 
favor  he  asked  in  return  was  the  permission  to 
quarter  one  regiment  of  foot,  and  two  troops  of 
horse  among  them  for  two  or  three  days,  as  an 
evidence  of  their  fidelity.    To  this  the  unsus- 


pecting jxiasants  joyfully  acceded,  and  Uie  army 
marched  in.  But  no  sooner  was  it  in  posses- 
sion of  the  strongholds  than  it  began  the  work 
of  massacre.  The  poor  people  taken  by  sur- 
prise fled  to  the  mountains — those  who  could — 
and  the  rest  were  slain.  Around  the  church  of 
Bobi  the  dead  lay  in  heaps.  The  shouts  of  in- 
furiated men,  and  the  shrieks  of  W'Omen  and 
children,  made  this  sweet  valley  ring  with  ter- 
rific echoes.  The  ordinary  means  of  torture 
were  not  sufficient,  and  new  modes  of  cruelty 
were  invented.  Infants  were  pulled  from  the 
breasts  of  their  mothers,  and  their  brains  dash- 
ed out  against  the  rocks.  Mothers  and  daugh- 
ters were  ravished  in  each  other's  presence, 
and  then  filled  with  pebbles.  In  their  mouths 
and  ears  powder  was  crammed,  and  set  fire  to, 
and  thus  the  helpless  sufferers  were  blown  up. 
Sick  people  were  tied  with  their  heads  and  feet 
together,  and  thrown  down  the  precipices. 
Many  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  were  impaled 
alive,  and  thus  naked  and  writhing  in  agony, 
were  planted  along  the  highways. 

Afterwards,  however,  these  persecuted 
Christians  rallied,  and,  falling  on  their  perse- 
cutors, routed  them  with  terrible  slaughter. 
In  1686  another  persecution  commenced,  but 
its  history  is  like  that  of  all  the  others — it  is 
a  record  of  duplicity,  treachery,  cruelty,  and 
barbarity  too  horrible  to  give.  The  people  of 
Bobi  suffered  inboth  these  persecutions  severely; 
but  they  had  brave  hearts,  and  fought  around 
their  ancient  altars  with  a  heroism  deserving 
of  a  better  fate.  Out  of  fourteen  thousand 
who  were  imprisoned  during  the  former  per- 
secution, eleven  thousand  perished.  Still  a 
remnant  remained,  and,  true  to  their  ancient 
faith,  these  smitten  children  of  God  bore  all 
with  the  firmness  of  martyrs. 

At  length  they  were  driven  from  theifhomes 
and  scattered  over  Protestant  Europe.  But 
they  still  turned  their  eyes  wistfully  towards 
their  mountain  homes.  They  were  exiles  in  a 
strange  land,  and  like  the  captive  children  of 
Israel,  they  wept  when  they  remembered  their 
quiet  churches  amid  the  Alps.  The  very 
fact  that  their  altars  had  been  baptized  in  blood 
rendered  them  doubly  dear.  Their  hearts  were 
in  their  desolate  homes,  and  still  clung  to  the 
ashes  of  their  fathers,  and  children,  and  wives, 
and  brothers,  who  had  fallen  nobly  for  their 
holy  religion. 

At  length  the  exiles  started  to  return,  and 
with  the  intrepid  Amaud,  a  priest,  at  their 
head,  fought  their  way  back,  inch  by  inch,  to 


J04 


TRUST    IN    GOD. 


their  native  valleys,  and  there,  despite  their  per- 
secutors, gathered  once  more  into  their  neglect- 
ed churches,  and  reared  anew  their  broken 
down  altars.  With  the  sword  of  war  and  with 
prayer  together,  they  entered  and  maintained 
their  long-deserted  homes. 

On  the  sixteenth  day  of  their  march  they 
reached  Bodi,  and  encamped  around  their  little 
church.  The  building  was  in  ruins,  but  the 
minister,  M.  Montoux,  the  colleague  of  Ar- 
naud,  placed  a  door  from  one  rock  to  another, 
and  preached  to  that  toil-worn  band,  fresh  from 
the  field  of  slaughter,  and  still  stained  with  the 
blood  of  their  foes,  from  these  words  :  "  The 
law  and  the  prophets  were  until  John ;  since  that 
time  the  kingdom  of  God  is  preached,  and  every 
man  presseth  into  it."  The  hearts  of  the  exiles 
were  sad  as  they  looked  on  their  desolate  val- 
ley, but  the  words  of  the  preacher  comforted 
them.  After  sermon,  their  cause  was  commit- 
ted in  solemn  prayer  to  God,  and  then  they 
adopted  certain  regulations,  by  which  they 
were  to  be  governed,  and  took  an  oath  of  fideli- 
ty to  each  other.  This  was  the  oath  taken  at 
Bobi: 

"  God,  by  his  divine  grace,  having  happily  led  us 
back  into  the  heritage  of  our  forefathers,  there  to 
re-establish  the  pure  service  of  our  holy  religion, 
by  the  completion  of  that  enterprise  which  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  has  hitherto  conducted  in  our  favor:  We, 
the  pastors,  captains,  and  other  officers,  swear,  in 
the  presence  of  Almighty  God,  and  at  the  peril  of 
our  souls,  to  observe  union  and  order  among  us ; 
never  willingly  to  disunite  or  separate  so  long  as 


God  shall  grant  us  life— not  although  we  should  be 
so  miserable  as  to  be  reduced  to  three  or  four — 
never  to  temporize  or  treat  with  our  enemies  of 
France,  nor  those  of  Piedmont,  without  the  partici- 
pation of  our  whole  council  of  war,  and  to  put  to- 
gether the  booty  which  we  have  now  or  may  have, 
to  be  applied  to  the  wants  of  our  people,  or  cases  of 
emergency.  And  we,  soldiers,  swear  this  day  be- 
fore God,  to  obey  all  the  orders  of  our  officers, 
and  vow  fidelity  to  them  with  all  our  hearts,  even 
to  the  last  drop  of  our  blood;  also,  to  give  up  to 
their  care  the  prisoners  and  booty,  to  be  disposed 
of  as  they  shall  judge  fit.  And,  in  order  to  more 
perfect  regulation,  it  is  forbidden,  under  heavy  pen- 
alties, to  any  officer  or  soldier  to  search  an  enemy, 
dead,  wounded,  or  a  prisoner,  during  or  after  bat- 
tle, but  for  which  office  proper  persons  shall  be  ap- 
pointed. The  officers  are  enjoined  to  take  care 
that  the  soldiers  keep  their  arms  and  ammunition 
in  order,  and  above  all,  to  chastise  severely  all  who 
shall  profanely  swear  or  blaspheme.  And,  to  ren- 
der union,  which  is  the  soul  of  our  affairs,  invio- 
lable among  us,  we,  the  officers,  swear  fidelity 
to  our  soldiers,  and  we  soldiers  to  our  offi- 
cers, solemnly  engaging,  moreover,  to  our  Lord 
and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  to  rescue,  as  far  as  in  us 
lies,  our  brethren  from  the  thraldom  of  the  cruel 
Babylon,  and  with  them  to  re-establish  and  main- 
tain his  kingdom  unto  death,  and  by  this  oath  we 
will  abide  all  our  lives." 

On  Sunday,  one  September  morning,  did  the 
brave  Waldenses  repeat  this  solemn  oath  with 
arms  in  their  hands.  The  hills  of  Bobi  looked 
down  upon  them — God  heard  the  oath  and 
gave  them  deliverance,  and  once  more  they 
assembled  in  this  secluded  church,  and  wor- 
shipped God  in  sincerity  and  purity  of  heart. 


"  They  Uiat  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  m  joy." — Psalm* 

Christian,  when  storms  assail  thee, 

Bow  to  the  rod ; 
Ne'er  let  thy  stout  heart  fail  thee. 

Trusting  in  God. 


Though  trials  gather  round  thee, 

His  arm  can  save  ; 
Trust  on — though  clouds  surround  thee, 

E'en  to  the  grave. 

There,  where  no  ill  can  harm  thee, 

Thou  hast  reward ; 
Oh,  then,  with  patience  arm  thee, 

Trusting  in  God. 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


105 


f lEIIg  ^IKBO^IIM  (DI?  ©(DMS:^MIP=3'3(DIf. 


BY    W.    J.    PEIME,    M.  D. 


PooE  Lucy  Ashton !  Just  one  year  ago  this 
day  she  was  married — to-day  she  has  died. 
Such  is  hfe.  Bound  up  and  hid  in  the  will  of 
an  unseen  and  inscrutable  Providence,  yet  one 
so  wise,  and  far-seeing,  and  good,  that  the  truly 
wise  man  must  submit  without  a  murmur. 

Perhaps  I  should  rather  have  said,  poor 
Henry  Ashton.  He  has  lost  a  priceless  trea- 
sure, while  she  has  gained  a  crown  and  a 
throne.  WTiy  do  we  speak  mournfully  of  the 
dead  who  die  in  the  glorious  hope  ?  There 
is  no  triumph  so  noble,  no  victory  so  truly  full 
of  glory,  as  that  of  the  young  and  beautiful,  in 
the  very  bloom  and  dew  of  their  youth,  sur- 
rounded with  all  that  makes  life  desirable,  and 
filled  with  love  for  every  thing  in  nature,  when 
with  unfaltering  heart  and  steadfast  eye  they 
meet  the  entrance  into  the  future.  Mourn  not 
for  them. 

Sweet  girl.  I  knew  her  from  her  childhood. 
She  was  an  only  child  of  a  clergyman  in  the 
country,  who  had  lost  his  wife  when  Lucy  was 
but  an  infant.  Yet  she  had  never  left  her 
father's  house,  but  was  brought  up  under  his 
own  eye,  and  was,  at  the  same  time,  the  pride 
and  the  solace  of  his  widowed  heart  It  may 
have  been,  it  probably  was,  the  fault  of  his  too 
tender  care  of  his  daughter,  that  her  bodily 
powers  were  always  weak ;  and,  like  a  delicate 
flower,  she  looked  as  if  the  first  rude  wind 
would  blight  and  wither  her  beauty.  Still  she 
grew  up  to  womanhood,  beautiful  and  happy, 
and  more  than  all,  with  intellectual  powers, 
naturally  of  a  high  order,  well  cultivated,  and 
calculated  to  shine  in  the  first  circles.  She 
was  thoroughly  accomplished  in  every  thing 
that  was  necessary  to  fit  a  woman  at  the  pres- 
ent day  to  take  a  high  place  in  society.  Her 
presence  carried  a  charm  with  it  wherever  she 
went,  and  none  knew  her  but  to  love  her. 
She  has  left  a  memory  dear  to  all  hearts  that 
knew  her ;  and  in  the  few  hearts  that  were 


most  familiar  with  her,  death  has  left  a  wound 
that  time  will  be  long  in  heaUng. 

Two  years  ago  this  summer,  Henry  Ashton, 
the  son  of  a  wealthy  southern  planter,  came 
into    this  region    in    search  of   health.     He 

brought  a  note  from  my  old  friend.  Dr.  S 

of  T n,  La.,  introducing  him,  and  com- 
mending him  warmly  to  my  friendship  and 
care,  as  every  way  worthy  of  the  former,  and 
probably  needing  the  latter.  From  the  char- 
acter given  him  by  my  friend,  I  at  once  invited 
him  to  make  my  house  his  home  till  he  should 
be  able  to  find  some  place  that  would  suit  him 
as  a  residence  for  the  summer.  I  soon  became 
warmly  attached  to  him,  and  it  was  witli  no 
little  reluctance  that  I  parted  with  him  at  the 
end  of  two  months.  But  he  wished  to  be  more 
in  the  country,  and  having  been  often  with  me 
in  my  rides,  he  had  selected  a  farm-house  about 
twelve  miles  distant,  and  witliin  a  few  steps  of 
the  residence  of  Lucy's  father.  I  accompanied 
him  to  his  new  abode,  and,  before  I  left  him, 
introduced  him  to  my  friend  the  minister,  and 
his  daughter. 

It  could  not  be  otherwise.  There  are  foun- 
tains in  some  hearts  that  flow  together,  as  the 
springs  from  the  hillsides,  and  mingle  at  once 
and  imperceptibly.  Be  the  barriers  what  thoy 
may,  however  insurmountable,  they  must  yield 
to  tlie  accumulating  tide.  But  here  there 
were  no  hindrances.  My  two  young  friends 
met  daily,  and  for  months,  and  when  the  time 
came  for  Henry  to  go  south  again,  he  found 
himself  tied  back  by  a  feeling  he  did  not  dream 
of  before.  When  he  reached  home,  he  wrote 
to  Lucy  and  her  father,  told  them  all  his  feel- 
ings in  his  noble  and  manly  way,  and  laid  his 
fortune  and  his  love  at  the  feet  of  my  beautiful 
young  friend.  Her  father  did  not  speak  to  her 
on  the  subject  till  he  had  sent  for  me.  In  her 
presence  he  put  the  letter  into  my  hand,  and 
as  I  read  it  I  felt  that  he  was  waiting  with  in- 


106 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


tense  anxiety  for  my  opinion.  When  I  had 
finished  reading  it  I  turned  to  Lucy,  who  sat 
by  my  side.  All  was  calm  and  apparently 
passionless  with  her,  till  I  asked  her  if  her 
heart  did  not  say,  yes. 

"  Oh  !  it  does — it  does,"  she  replied ;  "  but 
my  dear  father — I  cannot  leave  him." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling,"  said  the  old 
man,  whose  heart  had  been  well  nigh  bursting 
with  the  pent  up  emotions ;  "  yet  what  must  be 
done.  I  never  dreamed  that  such  were  Henry's 
feelings  towards  my  daughter,  or  hers  to  him. 
And  I  was  foolish  not  to  know  it,  for  I  learned 
to  love  him  while  he  was  here,  as  if  he  had 
been  my  own  son,  and  how  could  this  dear 
child  help  it.  Now  tell  us,  doctor,  what  is  to 
be  done.  I  cannot  lose  Lucy,  and  I  cannot 
step  between  them  and  their  happiness  by  say- 
ing, '  No.'  And  I  do  not  know  the  man  in  all 
the  world  into  whose  arms  I  would  place  my 
child  as  willingly  as  into  Henry  Ashton's. 
What  is  to  be  done,  doctor  ?" 

"  Let  us  hear  more  of  Lucy's  ideas  on  the 
matter,"  I  replied,  "  for  after  all  she  is  the  one 
most  interested  in  it." 

"  I  have  little  to  say,"  said  Lucy ;  "  I  am 
my  father's  child,  and  dear  as  Henry  is  to  me,  to 
all  of  us,  I  cannot  forsake  my  father  in  his  old 
age,  and  when  he  begins  most  to  need  a 
daughter's  care,  even  for  him.     If  Henry  would 

come  and  live  here  among  us" 

"  The  very  thing,"  said  I,  "  the  very  thing, 
and  he  shall  do  it,  Lucy.  I  know  he  will. 
And  though  I  am  a  little  jealous  at  the  ease 
with  which  he  has  won  away  our  Lucy's  love,  I 
will  write  to  him  and  tel'.  him  so." 

And  so  it  was  arranged,  though  Lucy  was 
left  to  write  to  him  also  and  tell  her  own  story. 
And  60  it  turned  out.  Early  in  the  following 
spring  came  Henry,  and  chose  him  a  beautiful 
spot  in  the  very  neighborhood  of  Lucy's  father, 
close  by,  and  it  was  all  altered  and  arranged, 
and  beautified  under  the  joint  superintendence 
of  the  two  who  were  to  occupy  it,  till  it  was  as 
delightful  as  a  little  Eden. 

In  the  first  month  of  summer  they  were 
married — the  two  noblest  and  gentlest  hearts 
I  ever  knew  made  one.  But  such  they  were 
before,  ana  now,  with  life  belore  them,  and  its 
patliway  bright,  why  should  they  not  be  happy  ? 
They  were.  I  never  saw  two  beings  more 
formed  for  each  other.  Talk  of  love,  idolatry, 
human  worship — such  is  not  the  affection 
whicli  endures  and  lasts  through  all  the  trials 
and  changes  of  life.    It  must  be  that  calm, 


deep-flowing,  pervading  feeling,  which,  ever 
the  same,  though  gentle  as  a  spring  flower  in 
prosperity,  becomes  in  adversity  the  enduring 
rock  on  which  the  sorely  tried  may  lean,  and 
feel  security  and  joy.  Such  was  the  feeling 
which  bound  these  two  together.  And  this 
day  is  the  first  anniversary  of  their  marriage — 
how  changed,  how  awfully  reversed  is  every 
thing  now  to  the  living — and  to  the  dead, 
what  ?     Alas  !  for  frail  humanity. 

The  calls  of  my  profession  had  kept  me  so 
constantly  occupied  through  the  winter  and 
spring,  that  I  had  not  found  time  to  visit  my 
young  friends.  I  was  thinking  of  riding  over 
the  next  day,  and  was  arranging  my  business 
so  that  nothing  might  interfere  to  interrupt  the 
delightful  visit  I  was  always  sure  of  enjoying 
at  the  farm-house,  when,  sitting  in  my  office,  I 
saw  the  form  and  face  of  Henry's  old  negro 
servant  pass  the  window.  In  a  moment  he 
entered  the  room,  and,  with  his  peculiar  look 
of  self-satisfied  pride,  which  he  always  seemed 
to  feel  at  the  confidence  and  aflection  bestowed 
on  him  by  his  master  and  young  mistress,  he 
gave  me  a  letter.  I  opened  it,  and,  recog- 
nizing my  young  friend's  hand,  read  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Dear  Doctor — I  wish  you  would  come 
out  to  see  us,  if  possible,  as  soon  as  you  receive 
this.  Lucy  is  ill — not  very — but  I  think  you 
ought  to  see  her.  She  has  had  a  cough 
for  two  days,  and  I  am  a  little  apprehensive, 
with  her  delicate  constitution,  lest  it  may  result 
in  something  serious.  Do  not  let  her  know 
that  I  have  sent  for  you.  You  have  not  been 
out  to  see  us  in  a  long  time,  and  you  can  come 
as  if  to  make  us  a  visit  as  formerly.  Come 
prepared  to  stay  all  night,  if  you  can.  She 
does  not  know  that  I  am  writing  to  you,  nor 
does  she  seem  to  have  any  idea  that  siie  is  sick. 
I  am  not  alarmed,  but — you  know  me,  and 
how  I  feel.     As  ever,  yours, 

"  Henry. 

"Farm-House,  May  15,  1847." 

I  thought  I  discovered  in  this  letter  more  of 
alarm  and  apprehension  than  he  was  willing 
should  appear,  and,  therefore,  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, I  was  on  the  road,  and  drove  rapidly  out  to 
his  house.  He  met  me  as  I  alighted  at  the 
gate,  and  Lucy  was  but  a  moment  behind  him, 
as  beautiful  and  with  as  bright  a  smile  as  cho 
always  wore.  She  took  my  arm  as  wo 
walked  up  the  avenue  to  the  house,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  out  once 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


107 


more,  doctor.  We  have  talked  about  you  much 
of  late,  for  you  know  you  have  always  been 
one  of  us,  and  it  has  nearly  seemed  an  age 
since  you  were  here.  And  then  I  wanted  to 
see  you,  because  I  really  believe  Henry  is  sick. 
He  has  seemed,  for  a  day  or  two,  to  be  in  very 
poor  spirits,  though  he  tries  all  he  can  to  make 
me  think  he  is  well.  You  must  talk  to  him, 
doctor,  and  find  out  what  is  the  matter." 

"  And  how  is  it  with  you,  Lucy  ?"  I  inquired, 
glad  to  have  the  subject  thus  opened  at  once, 
and  by  herself.  "Are  you  quite  well  this  spring  ?" 
"  O  yes,"  she  said,"  quite  well,  I  believe.  I 
liave  taken  cold,  perhaps,  and  had  a  slight 
cough  for  two  days  past,  with  a  little  of  that 
old  pain  in  my  side  ;  but  so  little  that  it  does 
not  trouble  me  at  all.  I  feel  much  more  un- 
easy about  Henry  than  I  do  about  myself. 
You  know  my  pain  has  always  been  of  very 
short  duration,  and  [  shall  probably  be  rid  of  it 
in  &  day  or  two ;  but  you  must  talk  to  him 
about  his  health  before  you  go  hack.  He  con- 
fines himself  so  much  at  home — perhaps  a 
journey  might  do  him  good — though  the 
weather  is  so  cold  this  spring  it  hardly  seems 
pleasant  to  leave  our  own  delightful  home. 
How  very  tardy  the  season  is  in  opening.  My 
dear,  beautiful  flowers,  some  of  which  ought  to 
be  smiling  with  open  blossoms,  have  not  begun 
to  show  their  first  buds  yet.  But  they  will 
come,  doctor — they  will  all  come  soon,  and 
then  how  gay  we  shall  look." 

And  thus  she  chatted  on  till  I  began  to  forget 
what  I  had  come  for,  or  really  to  believe  that 
Henry  was  •  tlie  sick  one  after  all.  Indeed, 
there  seemed  little  cause,  if  any,  for  his  anxiety, 
though  she  had  an  occasional  cough,  which  did 
not  sound  like  a  mere  cold.  I  took  occasion, 
without  giving  her  any  cause  for  thinking  I 
saw  any  thing  particularly  alarming  in  her 
case,  to  question  her  fully  in  reference  to  her 
health,  and  became  satisfied  that  there  was 
some  ground  forat  least  more  than  ordinary  care. 
After  dinner  I  walked  out  with  Henry. 
Although  he  evidently  strove  to  suppress  any 
appearance  of  alarm,  I  coujd  see  that  he  was 
considerably  excited.  I  therefore,  to  quiet  his 
fears  as  much  as  was  proper,  told  him  that  I 
saw  nothing  immediately  alarming  in  her, 
'.hough  in  consideration  of  her  delicate  consti- 
tution, it  would  be  well  to  attack  any  thing 
that  might  lead  to  trouble,  in  the  verj'  onset. 

"  But,  doctor,  she  must  not  suspect  that  you 
are  here  for  that  purpose,  or  that  we  feel  any   5 
anxiety  for  her."  \ 


"By  no  means,"  I  replied.  "She  thinks 
you  are  sick,  and  after  I  have  made  some 
trifling  prescription  for  you,  I  wiL  advise  her 
to  do  something  for  her  cold." 

"  Dear  girl,"  said  he,  "  she  has  noticed  my 
depression  of  spirits  on  her  account  and  thinks 
I  am  sick.  WHiat  shall  I  do,  doctor,  if  she  is 
taken  away  ?"  and  he  turned  away  to  brush 
ofFa  tear. 

"  We  must  wait,  my  dear  friend,  till  we  see 
something  more  alarming,  before  we  indulge 
any  such  forebodings.  But  in  any  case  you 
must  be  the  man  and  the  Christian  that  I  know 
you  to  be.  At  any  rate,  we  must  borrow  no 
trouble,  and  when  it  comes,  trust  in  God." 

When  we  returned  to  the  house,  we  found 
Lucy  seated  at  her  piano,  and  after  listening  a 
while  to  her  music,  I  called  her  to  take  a  seat 
by  my  side. 

"  Well,  Lucy,"  I  said,  "  I  have  been  prescrib- 
ing for  Henry,  though  you  have  very  little 
ground  for  your  fears  in  his  behalf,  and  now  I 
beUeve  I  must  do  something  for  tliis  cough  of 
yours,  so  you  can  amuse  yourselves  by  taking 
care  of  each  other  while  you  are  sick." 

"  Why,  really,"  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  think 
there  is  the  least  call  for  medicine  in  my  case, 
but  if  you  think  so,  you  know  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  implicit  obedience  to  you." 

"  Oh  !  just  a  little  to  check  your  cough  in  the 
outset.  You  know  I  am  always  afraid  of  slight 
colds." 

."  Well,  so  be  it  then — and  Henry  and  I  will 
find  it  something  new  to  be  each  other's  nurse, 
as  it  is  the  first  time  we  have  been  sick  since 
we  were  married" — and  she  laughed  empha- 
tically as  she  pronounced  the  word  sick. 

I  felt  an  unusual  weight  upon  my  heart  as  I 
rode  home  in  the  evening.  Was  it  produced 
by  my  conversation  with  Henry,  and  his  fears  ? 
I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  influenced  by  others' 
fears  in  this  way,  and  I  laid  it  to  one  of  those 
presentiments  which  we  often  feel,  but  which 
soon  wear  off  and  are  never  realized. 

May  20lh,  1847. — (I  here  extract  from  my 
journal.)  Would  that  it  were  all  the  empty 
fears  and  presentiments  of  overweening  affec- 
tion for  our  dear  Lucy.  I  was  summoned 
again  this  morning  to  visit  her,  and  this  time 
without  any  disguise  on  the  part  of  her  hus- 
band. The  old  negro  servant  delivered  the 
message  in  his  own  words : — 

"  Missus  Lucy  wery  sick,  and  Massa  Henry 
send  for  Dr.  P in  great  hurr}-." 

There  was  no  smile  on  his  face  as  usual 


108 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


with  him,  but  a  serious  look  that  I  believed  at 
once  was  the  reflection  of  faces  at  the  farm- 
house. As  soon  as  I  received  the  message  I 
started. 

Lucy  is  indeed  very  sick.  She  has  all  the 
symptoms  of  seated  consumption.  The  poisor 
has  unquestionably  been  lurking  in  her  system 
for  years,  and  now  we  can  only  wait  in  quiet 
patience  for  the  end.  There  is  no  hope  for 
life.  AF.  now  points  downward — down  to  the 
grave. 

O  Consumption  ! — thou  agent  of  the  grave — 
that  plantest  a  solitary  rosebud  in  the  cheek  of 
.  the  dying,  and  addest  strange  beauty  to  the  face 
of  thy  victims — thou  worse  than  fiend,  that 
makest  the  soul  treacherously  happy  in  the  last 
hour,  and  throwest  over  the  future  a  hope,  deep 
and  all-absorbing,  but  never  to  be  realized — thou 
tyrant,  like  thy  master,  Death,  filling  the  heart 
with  dreams  of  life  up  to  the  very  hour  the 
fatal  shaft  pierces — thou  whose  only  charm  is 
that  thou  drawest  a  bright  vision  of  life  over 
the  last  agony,  and  interposest  a  sunlit  cloud 
between  our  spirits  and  the  grave — whj'^  is  it 
that  we  fear  thee  ? 

Lucy  sat  in  her  easy  chair  when  I  entered, 
and  greeted  me  with  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles. 
I  took  my  seat  by  her  side,  and  tried  to  com- 
pose myself  to  talk  with  her ;  for  the  first  sight 
of  her  pale  and  thin  face,  and  the  sound  of  her 
sharp  cough,  told  me  a  fearful  tale.  But  she — 
Oh  !  she  realized  nothing  of  her  danger,  and 
began  at  once  to  talk  of  herself. 

"  They  have  at  length  persuaded  me  that  I 
ought  to  have  medical  advice,  doctor,  and  so 
we  have  called  you  so  soon  away  from  your 
business  again.  But  I  believe  it  is  the  only 
way  in  which  we  shall  be  able  hereafter  to  see 
much  of  you,  for  one  of  us  to  be  sick,  and  it 
is  better  it  should  be  I  than  any  of  the  others. 
But  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  speak  thus 
either.  I  am  not  as  well  as  when  you  were 
here  a  few  days  since.  My  cough  has  in- 
creased, as  you  no  doubt  perceive,  and  I  have 
become  very  weak  and  feverish,  and  I  have 

more  of  the  pain  in  my  side" 

And  she  went  on  describing  all  the  prominent 
symptoms  of  lier  formidable  disease,  till  my 
heart,  already  too  heavy  wi-th  sadness  and  fear, 
sunk  down  in  me  like  lead.  What  could  I  do  7 
With  a  strong  effort,  I  summoned  all  my  ener- 
gies and  mastered  my  feelings,  and  with  all  the 
coolness  I  should  use  in  examining  the  most 
indifferent  patient,  I  questioned  the  dear  girl  as 
to  all  her  eymptoms.    I  found  that  the  disease 


was  already  far  advanced,  and  was  probably 
destined  to  a  rapid  course  and  a  speedy  ter 
mination.  And  if  to  me,  her  physician  and 
friend  only,  this  sudden  trial  is  so  overwhelm- 
ing, what  must  it  be  to  her  husband  and  father, 
when  their  fears,  reasoned  against  as  they  of 
course  have  been,  shall  be  confirmed  ?  And  '■ 
there  is  now  no  evading  nor  smoothing  away 
the  truth.  All  must  be  told,  at  once  and  in  its 
full  extent 

Her  father  had  recently  removed  to  the  farm- 
house, and  was  in  his  study,  where  he  spent 
the  most  of  his  time.  To  him  I  determined 
immediately  to  unfold  the  terrible  truth,  trust- 
ing to  find  his  firmness  greater  than  that  of 
Henry,  whom  I  had  not  seen. 

I  was  not  disappoipted.  He  was  walking 
his  room  with  a  firm  and  slow  pace,  when  I 
entered  at  his  bidding,  and  he  motioned  me  to 
a  seat.  I  took  it,  and  sat  a  moment  in  silence, 
thinking  with  what  words  I  should  break  my 
news  to  him.  He  took  a  few  turns  across  the 
room,  and  stopping  before  me  said,  with  slow 
and  measured  words — 

"  Doctor,  you  have  come  to  speak  to  me 
about  Lucy — my  dear,  just-blossomed  flower." 

"  I  have,  my  dear  sir — I  have  much  to  say, 
and" 

"I  know  it  all" — he  interrupted  me — "  all — 
all.  Doctor  we  must  give  her  up.  His  will 
be  done.  I  had  hoped  for  many  years  of  life  to 
her,  and  had  my  day-dreams  as  we  all  have, 
doctor ;  but  they  all  fade,  sir,  fade.  I  have 
done  the  same  before,  when  she  was  born,  and 
her  sainted  mother  died.  I  should  have  them 
again  if  I  had  another  flower  left.  I  know  not 
how  these  ties  break  without  breaking  our 
hearts,  which  are  wrung  so  sadly.  But  He 
bears  us  up.  If  we  failed  and  grew  weary 
with  these  trials,  how  should  we  '  do  in  the 
swellings  of  Jordan  ?'  Do  not  think,  my  dear 
doctor,  that  I  do  not  feel  this.  I  shall  be  sorely 
bereaved ;  but  I  am  a  Christian,  and  should 
submit." 

I  knew,  for  I  saw  it,  that  the  good  old  man*s 
heart  was  sorely  torn,  but  he  had  anticipated 
my  errand,  and  now  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  tell 
him  the  exact  state  of  the  case.  This  I  did  in 
few  words,  and  when  I  ended,  he  lifted  up  his 
folded  hands,  and  his  agony  found  vent  in  the 
words  of  the  Master  he  loved  and  followed : 
"  My  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass 
from  me  :  but  thy  will  be  done."  He  then  sat 
down  by  my  side  and  said : 

"  Doctor,  how  shall  we  communicate  this  to 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


109 


Henry  ?    He  fears  it  all,  but  has  no  idea  of  its 
reality." 

«  That,  sir,  I  think,  must  be  left  to  you,"  I 
replied. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  best,"  he  said.  "  Yet  I  know 
not  how." 

I  know  not  how  he  will  do  it.  I  was  obliged 
to  leave  them  after  having  done  all  for  Lucy 
tliat  the  hopelessness  of  such  a  case  permitted. 
Never  was  a  ride  of  twelve  miles  so  long  be- 
fore— never  before  did  the  inter\ening  hours 
pass  so  heavily  and  anxiously,  as  they  pass 
now,  and  will  pass  till  I  see  her  again  to-mor- 
row.    Poor  Henry  Ashton  ! 

2lst. — Sweet  girl.  Can  it  be  possible  that 
she  is  dying,  so  slowly,  yet  so  surely,  with  no 
deeper  sense  of  it  than  she  seems  now  to  feel  ? 
And  yet,  why  wonder  at  it  ?  I  have  seen  so 
many  smitten  down  with  this  insidious  dis- 
ease— some  dying  in  a  few  weeks  from  its 
apparent  attack — others  by  long  and  lingering 
months  and  years  of  sickness,  and  all  thus  un- 
conscious of  its  fatal  progress,  that  it  ought  to 
be  no  marvel  that  one  so  suddenly  attacked  as 
my  fair  young  friend  should  not  feel  the  truth. 
As  I  took  my  seat  by  her  to-day,  she  said  : 

"  They  have  communicated  to  me  intelli- 
gence to-day,  doctor,  that  ought  perhaps  to 
alarm  me ;  yet  I  cannot  realize  the  fact  at  all, 
that  I  am  the  victim  of  a  disease  which  may  in 
a  few  days  lay  me  by  the  side  of  my  mother. 
I  am  forced  to  believe  it,^and  am  surprised  at 
tlie  calm  indifference  with  which  I  regard  it. 
My  dear  father  is  deeply  affected  at  my  condi- 
tion, but  controls  his  feelings  wonderfrll)'-.  He 
has  been  talking  with  me  to-day  about  it.  But 
our  dear  Henry,  doctor,  he  is  almost  frantic." 

At  this  moment  he  entered  the  room  with  a 
bunch  of  spring  flowers  he  had  been  gathering 
for  his  wife.  Neither  of  us  could  speak  for  a 
moment  as  we  pressed  each  other's  hands. 
Lucy  noticed  it,  and  said  : 

"  Come  here,  Henry,  and  sit  by  me ;  there — 

with  you  on  this  side,  and  our  dear  Dr.  P 

on  the  other,  who  has  known  all  our  hearts, 
we  may  speak  of  what  we  could  not  alone. 
You  must  not  feel  so,  my  dear  husband.  You 
must  look  upon  me  now  and  when  I  am  gone 
as  the  same." 

"  Lucy,  do  not  talk  so,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you 
may  recover  yet — at  least  let  me  hope  so." 

"Oh  no,  Henry!  you  must  hope  no  such 
thing.  You  all  know  I  must  die,  and  although 
I  do  not  fear  it,  yet  I  know  it,  and  would  meet 
it  as  I  ought.     You  see  these  sweet  flowers ; 


they  are  fading  already,  like  me.  When  I  am 
gone,  my  sweet  flowers  will  all  bloom,  and  all 
around  will  be  the  same — just  the  same  as  if  I 
were  here.  I  have  been  counting  very  much 
upon  the  pleasure  I  should  take  in  my  flower- 
garden  this  summer,  but  it  was  all  because  I 
should  have  my  dear  husband  to  enjoy  tliem 
with  me.  But  they  will  bloom  as  they  have, 
and  I— there  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  the  New 
Testament,  doctor,  that  was  taught  me  when  a 
little  girl — Henry,  get  me  my  little  Bible,  and 
I  will  read  it." 

The  place  was  marked  by  a  leaf  turned 
down,  and  she  opened  to  it  and  read  nearly  the 
whole  of  the  15th  chapter  of  1st  Corinthians. 
We  sat  in  silence,  and  her  father,  who  entered 
just  as  she  began  to  read,  stood  behind  her, 
wiping  from  his  eyes  the  tears  that  fell  fast 
and  freely. 

I  can  do  nothing  for  her  but  palliate  tlie 
symptoms,  which  daily  become  more  and  more 
distressing.  Would  that  I  had  the  power  to 
snatch  her  from  the  jaws  of  remorseless  Death. 
But  it  is  one  of  the  diseases  in  which  all  medical 
skill  and  science  is  baffled  and  set  at  nought. 

Henry  followed  me  when  I  left  the  room, 
and  seemed  desirous  of  saying  sometiiing,  but 
his  tears  choked  his  utterance.  I  could  only 
press  his  hand  in  silence.  I  felt  myself  hke  a 
child  in  my  grief. 

25th. — Lucy  continues  to  decline  daily,  and 
the  more  feeble  she  becomes,  the  plainer  is  de- 
veloped that  peculiar  trait  of  her  disease  of 
which  I  have  before  spoken — the  insensibility 
to  approaching  dissolution.  She  is  now  en- 
tirely confined  to  her  bed ;  but  her  mental 
powers  display  a  wonderful  vigor. 

"  Doctor,"  she  said  to  me  to-day,  "  I  believe 
my  feelings  must  be  much  the  same  with  those 
of  a  man  upon  whom  sentence,  of  death  has 
been  passed,  and  the  time  not  fixed  for  his  exe- 
cution. You  all  tell  me,  and  I  see  it  in  )'our 
faces  and  in  your  tears,  that  I  am  dying.  My 
reason  is  satisfied  of  the  fact,  but  I  do  not  feel 
it.  I  do  not  hope  for  life,  because  I  have  no 
settled  and  firm  impression  that  I  am  not  yet  to 
spend  many  years  among  you.  As  soon  as 
you  are  gone,  and  your  sad  faces  have  left  me, 
I  find  myself  constantly  making  plans  for  the 
future,  and  often  I  inflict  a  profound  wound 
upon  Henry  by  talking  to  him  of  what  we  will 
do  when  I  shall  be  well  again.  Alas  !  I  wish 
a  portion  of  my  insensibility  might  be  commu- 
nicated to  him." 
What    mysteries    there  are  in  life — what 


110 


THE  VICTIM  OF  CONSUMPTION. 


strangest  of  mysteries  in  this,  that  the  blooming 
and  the  beautiful,  loving  and  beloved,  with 
hearts  attuned  to  every  thing  that  is  noble,  and 
good,  and  generous,  should  be  thus  taken  away 
in  early  life  from  those  who  are  bound  up  in 
them — and  the  old,  and  wayworn,  and  weary 
of  life,  in  their  decrepitude  and  solitary  misan- 
thropy, linger  on  beyond  the  natural  period  of 
man's  existence.  But  thus  it  is.  We  see  it 
every  day  and  wonder  at  the  fact. 
********* 

•  But  I  will  not  detail  the  daily  scenes  which 
have  taken  place  at  the  farm-house.  To  the 
mere  reader  they  cannot  have  the  interest 
which  they  had  to  us,  who  loved  too  fondly. 
The  profound  grief  of  her  husband,  as  he  wit- 
nessed her  increasing  weakness  from  day  to 
day,  seemed  to  threaten  his  reason  with  an 
overthrow.  The  minister  rarely  spoke  with 
us  in  relation  to  his  daughter,  but  to  ask  how 
she  was.  But  the  walls  of  his  lonely  study,  if 
they  could  speak,  would  tell  a  tale  of  sleepless 
nights  and  tearful  days,  and  agonizing  pray- 
ers— not  for  the  life  of  his  darling  child,  for  he 
had  given  her  up  to  die — but  for  Henry,  the 
poor,  heart-broken  man,  and  for  himself,  that 
they  might  have  help  from  on  high  in  the  pres- 
ent, and  in  the  approaching  hour  of  trial.  And 
for  himself,  his  wrestlings  were  not  vain.  He 
always  appeared  calm,  though  it  was  evidently 
by  a  miglity  effort.  He  would  sit,  often  for 
hours,  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  child,  and, 
indirectly,  without  referring  to  her  present  con- 
dition, lead  her  mind  to  the  contemplation  of 
the  future  world.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  ima- 
gination, joined  to  his  strong  powers  of  mind, 
and  he  loved  to  talk  of  the  "  better  country  " 
whither  liis  wife  had  gone,  and  to  which  the 
footsteps  of  his  daughter  were  fast  tending. 
It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  she  in- 
terrupted him  with  the  question — 

"  Father,  do  you  think  that  the  friends  who 
have  loved  each  other,  as  we  all  do,  will  know 
each  other  and  continue  their  sweet  companion- 
ship there  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear  child,*'  he  replied. 

"  Well,"  she  said, "  I  have  oflen  thought  of  it, 
and  if  my  mother  would  recognize  her  little 
daughter.  For  though  I  have  never  seen  her 
since  an  infant,  yet  I  have  learned  to  know  her 
and  love  her,  from  hearing  you  talk  of  her. 
And  how  pleasant  it  must  be  to  meet  those  we 
have  loved  and  lost !" 

I  was  by  her  bedside  this  morning  by  nine 
o'clock,  and  found  her  sitting  up,  supported  by 


pillows.     Henry  was  there,  and  his  face  wore 
an  air  of  much  less  distress. 

"I  am  better  this  morning,  doctor,"  said 
Lucy,  "  much  better.  I  feel  stronger,  and  free 
from  pain,  and  would  have  sat  up  in  my  easy 
chair  if  Henry  would  have  permitted  me  :  but 
he  said  we  must  wait  till  you  came.  I  want  to 
sit  by  the  window  and  breathe  the  fresh  air, 
and  look  out  upon  the  beautiful  world  once 
more.  You  do  not  think  it  will  hurt  me,  do 
you,  doctor  ?" 

I  of  course  cheerfully  consented,  and  her 
husband  lifted  her,  already  emaciated  to  a  very 
great  degree,  from  her  bed,  and  having  placed 
her  in  her  easy  chair,  she  wa«  gently  rolled  to 
the  window.  It  was  open,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  fine  lawn  and  pleasure-grounds  in 
front.  They  are  laid  out  with  great  taste,  and 
spotted  here  and  there  with  flowers  and  orna- 
mental shrubs. 

"  How  delightful,"  she  said,  as  her  eye 
wandered  over  the  view,  "  after  one  has  been 
shut  up  so  long,  to  look  out  upon  the  world 
again.  Since  1  have  been  sick  all  the  trees 
have  taken  on  their  green  leaves,  and  the  grass 
has  sprung  up,  and  all  is  changed.  And  my 
beautiful  flowers  are  all  out  as  gay  as  if  I  had 
taken  care  of  them  myself.  I  wish  I  could 
walk  out  among  them.  Perhaps  I  shall  in  a 
few  days  now,  if  I  continue  to  improve.  You 
have  been  making  a  change  in  the  avenue. 
Henry,  I  perceive.  That  new  turn  is  very 
graceful,  and  looks  pleasant,  winding  through 
that  shade.  We  must  have  a  seat  there,  just 
in  that  spot," 

"  You  must  not  fatigue  yourself,  Lucy,  with 
talking,"  said  I. 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  she  replied ; "  but  every  thing 
looks  so  delightful,  and  fresh,  and  joyous  with- 
out, and  I  feel  so  much  more  as  I  used  to  feel, 
that  I  love  to  talk  to  you  all.  But  I  will  stop 
and  rest.  Perhaps  I  might  sleep  a  little  in  my 
chair,  if  the  back  were  let  down  a  little. 
There — that  will  do.  Here,  Henry,  take  this 
hand,  and,  doctor,  this.  How  pleasant  this  is, 
even  to  be  sick,  with  such  dear  ones  to  sit  be- 
side us  and  watch  us.  I  shall  dream  now  of 
the  green  fields  and  sweet  flowers.  We  shall 
soon  be  among  them  again,  I  hope,  dear  Henry, 
and  with  happier  hearts.  And  here  comes  my 
dear,  good  old  father.  Kiss  me,  father — I  am 
much  better  this  morning — and  there,  sit  down 
by  us  and  talk  while  I  go  to  sleep.*' 

There  were  ploasanter  faces  about  her  then 
than  there  had  been  in  many  previous  days. 


KENILWORTH  CASTLE. 


HI 


It  was  not  exactly  from  renewed  hope,  but  her 
ease,  and  apparent  improvement  this  morning, 
produced  a  sort  of  forgetfulness  of  our  past 
anxieties  and  cares.  Directly  she  spoke  again  : 
"  It  is  just  a  year  ago,  this  very  time,  that 
we  sat  thus — the  day  we  were  married,  Henry 
— do  you  remember  it  ?  How  soon  and  how 
pleasantly  the  time  has  gone  by.  And  will  not 
the  future  years  of  our  life  be  as  joyful  ?  It 
seems  to  me  we  ought  to  have  some  trials,  to 
make  us  feel  properly  thankful  for  such  unin- 
terrupted bliss.  But  I  forget  myself— I  must 
sleep.  WTien  I  die,  I  hope  it  may  be  thus, 
with  my  loved  ones  by  my  side." 


\  She  slept  nearly  an  hour,  while  we  sat  and 
watched  her  breathing,  which  was  free  and 
gentle  as  an  infant's,  and  the  smile  on  her  face 
seemed  to  tell  of  her  bright  and  happy  dreams. 
Then  there  was  a  gentle  pressure  of  the  hand, 
and  she  murmured  :  "  Henr}- — father."  A  mo- 
ment more,  and  she  opened  her  eyes,  and,  look- 
ing upwards,  said  in  an  audible  and  distinct 
voice : 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  I  come !" 
The  eyes  closed  again,  and  a  sweet  smile 
lingered  on  her  lips,  which  has  not  departed. 
She  is  dead. 
Poor  Henry  Ashton  I — poor  old  father ! 


lEISIfiriLW(DiaTII    ®AS=!?3LIg. 


AND  THEREABOUTS. 


BY    J.    T.    HEADLET. 


I  WILL  not  speak  of  Woodstock,  which  Scott 
has  made  immortal;  for  tJie  village  of  that 
name  is  merely  a  collection  of  dirty-looking 
hovels,  arranged  along  the  street  in  blocks,  like 
houses. 

Guy's  Cliff  is  distinguished  as  the  home  of  the 
stern  old  Sir  Guy,  renowned  in  the  feudal  wars. 
A  mile  farther  on  are  Warwick  and  Warwick 
Castle.  The  village  itself  looks  like  a  frag- 
ment of  antiquity,  though  the  streets  were 
somewhat  enlivened  the  day  I  passed  through 
them,  by  multitudes  of  men,  women,  children, 
cows,  horses,  and  sheep,  to  say  nothing  of 
vegetables  and  saleables  of  all  kinds  and  quality. 
One  of  those  fairs  so  common  in  England,  and 
so  characteristic  of  the  people,  was  being  held, 
and  I  had  a  good  view  of  the  peasantry.  The 
yeomanry  collected  at  one  of  our  cattle-shows 
are  gentlemen  compared  to  them. 

I  will  not  describe  the  castle,  with  its  mas- 
sive walls  and  ancient  look,  for  the  impression 
such  things  make  does  not  result  from  this  or 
that  striking  object,  but  from  the  whole  com- 
bined. The  walls  may  be  thick,  the  moat 
deep,  the  turrets  high  and  hoary,  and  the  rusty 


armor  within  massy  and  dinted — it  is  not  eitiier 
of  these  that  arrests  your  footsteps  and  makes 
you  stand  and  dream,  but  the  historj'  they  all  to- 
gether unroll,  and  the  images  your  own  imagi- 
nation calls  up  from  the  past. 

The  rusty  sword  of  this  strong-limbed  old 
earl  is  five  feet  long,  and  weighs  twenty 
pounds.  His  shield  weighs  thirty  pounds, 
breastplate  alone  fifty-six  pounds,  and  helmet 
seven  pounds,  to  say  nothing  of  his  massive 
coat  of  mail.  It  was  no  baby  hand  which 
wielded  that  sword  or  held  that  shield.  A 
strong  heart  beat  under  that  breastplate  of 
fifty-six  pounds  in  weight ;  an'l  wlicn  mounted 
on  his  gigantic  war-hor.«e,  clad  also  in  steel 
from  head  to  foot,  he  spurred  into  the  battle, 
the  strongest  knights  went  down  in  his  path, 
and  his  muffled  shout  was  like  the  trumpet  of 
victory. 

Thence  we  proceeded  to  Kenil  worth  Castle, 
a  mere  ruin,  standing  solitary  and  broken  amid 
the  green  fields.  Gone  are  its  beautiful  lake, 
draw-bridge,  portcullis,  and  moat — its  strong 
turrets  have  crumbled,  while  over  the  decayed 
and  decaying  walls  the  ivy  creeps  unchecked. 


1J2 


KENIL WORTH  CASTLE. 


It  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  ruins  I  have 
ever  seen.  Here  and  there  a  portion  remains 
almost  entire,  while  in  otiier  places  a  heap  of 
ruhbish  alone  tells  where  a  maj^nificent  apart- 
ment once  rung  to  the  shout  of  wassailers. 
The  bow-window  in  which  sat  the  flattered 
earl  of  Leicester  and  the  proud  Elizabeth,  and 
looked  down  on  the  grand  tournament,  is  still 
entire.  As  I  stood  here  and  gazed  below  on 
the  green  sward,  now  spreading  where  tlie 
gay  and  noble  once  trod  in  pride,  and  around 
on  the  ruin  whose  battlements  once  ghttered 
with  decorations  in  honor  of  the  haughty 
queen,  and  before  mo,  through  the  gateway, 
where  the  gorgeous  procession  passed,  the 
pageantry  of  life  seemed  a  dream.  There 
chargers  had  careered,  and  trumpets  rung,  and 
helmets  bowed  in  homage,  and  there  now 
swung  an  old  gate,  kept  by  a  solitary  old  porter. 
The  snake  and  lizard  occupy  the  proud  halls  of 
Leicester,  and  of  all  the  beautiful  and  brave 
who  once  thronged  these  courts,  not  one 
remains.  The  old  walls  and  crumbling  stones 
have  outlasted  them  all,  and  serve  only  as  a 
tombstone  to  what  has  been.  What  wild 
heart-throbbings,  and  dizzy  hopes,  and  bitter 
griefs,  have  been  within  these  ruined  enclo- 
sures. But  now  all  is  still  and  deserted — the 
banners  flutter  no  more  from  the  battlements, 
the  armed  knight  spurs  no  more  over  the  clat- 
tering draw-bridge,  lord  and  vassal  have  disap- 
peared. Time  has  outwatched  each  warder, 
and  hung  his  mouldering  hatchment  over  all 
who  have  lived  and  struggled  hero.  As  I  be- 
hold in  imagination  the  stern,  severe  Elizabeth, 
pissing  beneath  yonder  arch  on  her  gallant 
steed,  and  princes  and  nobles  of  every  degree 
pressing  on  her  steps,  and  then  turn  to  the  de- 
serted ruin,  I  involuntarily  exclaim,  "  ghosts 
are  we  all." 

Ah,  proud  Leicester  !  what  deeds  of  thine 
could  these  dumb  walls,  had  they  a  tongue,  tell! 
What  records  are  registered  in  their  moulder- 
ing forms  against  thee  !  Kenilworth,  thy  Ken- 
ilworth,  is  apparently  deserted,  but  around  it 
still  linger,  mcthiuks,  the  spirits  of  those  thou 
hast  wronged,  nay,  perchance  murdered. 

It  was  with  strange  feelings  I  turned  away 
from  this  beautiful  ruin.  The  heavens  were 
gatiiering  blackness,  and  now  and  then  a  big 
drop  came  dancing  to  the  earth,  and  all  be- 
tokened a  storm  at  hand.  Had  the  fading  sun- 
light gilded  its  dilapidated  turrets  as  I  passed 
Irom  under  its  silent  arches,  it  would  not  have 
seemed  so  mournful ;  but  amid  this  suspense  of 


the  elements  .tnd  increasing  gloom,  its  irregu- 
lar form  had  a  sad  aspect,  and  left  a  sad  im- 
pression. 

When  I  first  approached  the  castle,  ^  was 
struck  with  the  curious  English  usea  dj-  a  girl, 
perhaps  thirteen  years  of  age,  who  had  attle 
pamphlets,  describing  the  ruin  and  giving  its 
history,  to  sell.  As  she  advanced  to  meet  me, 
holding  the  book  in  her  hand,  she  exclaimed : 
"  A  shilling,  sir,  for  the  book,  or  a  sixpence  for 
the  lend."  "  A  sixpence  for  the  lend,"  I  replied, 
"  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  On  inquiry,  I 
discovered  that  the  pnce  of  the  book  was  a 
shilling,  but  that  she  would  lend  it  to  me  to  go 
over  the  castle  with  for  half  price.  Thinks  I 
to  myself,  you  might  travel  the  lengtli  and 
breadth  of  the  Atlantic  States,  and  not  hear 
such  an  uncouth  English  sentence  as  that. 

Coventry  is  on  the  railroad  that  connects 
Liverpool  and  London.  It  has  a  quaint  old 
church,  and  a  quaint  look  about  it  altogether. 
As  I  strolled  through  the  grave-yard,  I  seemed 
to  be  among  the  fragments  of  a  past  world — 
the  very  tombstones  looked  as  if  they  had  with- 
stood the  deluge.  As  I  wandered  about, 
dreaming  rather  than  thinking,  strains  of  music 
stole  out  from  the  antiquated  structure,  sooth- 
ing my  feelings,  and  filling  my  heart  with  a 
pleasure  composed  iialf  of  sadness. 

One  of  the  greatest  curiosities  of  this  place, 
it  is  well  known,  is  "  Peeping  Tom."  The 
story  of  Lady  Godiva  has  been  woven  into 
poetry  as  well  as  prose,  and  is  known  the 
world  over.  Her  husband.  Earl  Leofric,  was 
captain-general  of  all  the  forces  under  King 
Canute,  and  exercised  his  power  in  laying 
heavy  taxes  on  his  subjects.  Those  of  Coven- 
try were  ground  to  the  earth  by  his  oppression , 
and  though  their  sufferings  could  not  move  his 
iron  heart,  they  filled  the  soul  of  the  gentle 
Godiva  with  the  deepest  sorrow.  Impelled  by 
her  sympathies,  she  constantly,  but  in  vain, 
besought  her  lord  to  lessen  the  burdens  of  the 
people.  But  once,  being  received  after  a  long 
absence  with  cntliusiastic  affection,  he  in  his 
sudden  joy  asked  her  to  make  any  request,  and 
he  would  grant  it.  Taking  advantage  of  his 
kindness,  she  petitioned  for  his  subjects.  The 
stern  old  earl  was  fairly  caught,  but  hoped  to 
extricate  himself  by  imposing  a  condition  as 
brutil  as  it  was  cruel.  Knowing  tlie  modesty 
of  Ilia  lovely  wife,  he  promised  to  grant  her 
request,  provided  she  would  ride  naked  through 
the  streets  of  Coventry.  "  Any  thing,"  she 
replied,  "  for  my  suffering  people."    Ho  was 


KENILWORTH  CASTLE. 


113 


astonished,  but  thinking  she  would  fail  in  the 
hour  of  trial,  promised  to  fulfill  his  part  of 
the  contract.  Godiva  appointed  a  day,  and 
Leofric,  finding  she  was  determined,  ordered 
the  people  to  darken  the  fronts  of  their  houses 
and  shut  themselves  up,  while  the  Lady  Godiva 
was  passing.  They  joyfully  obeyed,  and  the 
blushing,  frightened  benefactress,  with  her 
long  tresses  streaming  over  her  form,  rode 
unclad  through  the  streets.  All  was  silent  and 
deserted ;  but  one  man,  a  tailor,  could  not 
restrain  his  curiosity,  and  peeped  forth  from  an 
upper  window  to  get  sight  of  her.  In  a  mo- 
ment, Godiva's  charger  stopped  and  neighed. 
The  fair  rider,  being  startled,  turned  her  face 
and  saw  the  unfortunate  tailor.  Instantly  the 
poor  fellow's  eyes  dropped  out  of  his  head,  in 
punishment  of  his  meanness. 

So  runs  the  tradition,  and  so  it  has  run  from 
time  immemorial.  In  the  time  of  Richard  II., 
a  painting  was  placed  in  Trinity  Church,  re- 
presenting the  earl  and  his  wife — the  former 
holding  in  his  hand  a  charter,  on  which  was 
inscribed, 

"  I,  Leofric,  for  the  love  of  thee. 
Doe  make  Coventrie  tol-free." 

I  had  heard  of  "  Peeping  Tom,"  and  went  in 
search  of  him.  I  hajl  forgotten,  however,  that 
he  occupied  the  upper  stor)'  of  a  house,  and 
went  the  whole  length  of  the  street  in  which  I 
was  informed  he  was  placed,  without  finding 
him.  I  expected  to  see  a  statue  standing  in 
some  comer  upon  the  ground,  and  hence  was 
compelled  to  inquire  more  particularly  of  his 
whereabouts.  When  at  length  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him,  with  his  cocked  hat  on,  peeping 
from  an  aperture  in  the  corner  of  a  house 
standing  at  the  intersection  of  two  streets,  I 
had  a  long  and  hearty  laugh.  His  appearance 
was  comical  in  the  extreme,  as  it  stood  looking 
down  on  the  throng  of  promenaders.  The 
man  who  owns  the  house  receives  an  annual 
stipend  for  allowing  it  to  remain  there,  and 
every  two  years  it  is  clad  in  a  new  suit,  made 


after  the  fashion  of  the  tenth  century.  On 
these  occasions,  the  shops  are  closed  as  on 
Sundays,  and  a  procession  of  the  citizens,  with 
the  mayor  at  their  head,  passes  through  the 
principal  streets  of  the  place,  accompanied  by 
a  woman  dressed  in  white  or  flesh-colored 
tights,  on  horseback.  When  they  come  oppo- 
site "Tom  "the  procession  halts,  the  high 
sheriff  invests  the  efligy  in  its  new  suit,  and 
the  imposing  ceremonies  are  ended.  This  was 
the  year  for  the  procession,  but  I  arrived  too 
late  to  witness  it.  A  woman  of  rather  easy 
virtue,  clad  in  a  flesh-colored  suit,  fitting  tight 
to  her  skin,  was  placed  on  a  horse,  and,  with  a 
quantity  of  false  hair  falling  around  her  form, 
represented  the  lovely  Godiva.  I  could  not  but 
think  how  such  a  procession,  with  such  comical 
ceremonies,  would  appear  in  New  York,  and 
what  the  good  people  of  that  practical  city 
would  do  on  such  an  occasion. 

As  I  was  strolling  about  I  came  upon  three 
or  four  hardy  weather-beaten  men,  one  of  whom 
came  up  to  me  and  said :  "  Sir.  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  begging,  but  my  master  in  Staflford 
has  broke,  and  I  am  left  without  work.  I 
came  here  with  my  family  to  find  work,  but 
cannot,  and  have  sold  my  last  bed  and  blanket 
to  buy  provisions.  If  you  could  give  me  some- 
thing, I  should  be  much  obliged  to  you." 
This  was  said  in  a  manly  tone — so  unlike  the 
whining  accents  of  a  continental  beggar,  that 
I  was  struck  with  it.  "  Why,"  said  I,  "  this  is 
very  strange — here  you  are,  a  strong  man, 
with  two  good  arms,  and  a  pair  of  stout  hands 
at  the  end  of  them,  and  yet  are  starving  in  the 
richest  kingdom  of  the  world.  This  is  very 
strange — what  is  it  all  coming  to  ?"  He  turned 
his  eye  upon  me  with  the  look  of  a  tiger  and 
exclaimed  :  "  What  is  it  all  coming  to  ?  Why 
it  is  coming  to  this,  one  of  these  days ;"  and  he 
struck  his  brawny  fists  together  with  a  report 
like  that  of  a  pistol.  I  need  not  say  that  I 
gave  him  money. 

A  strong  man,  willing  to  work  for  his  daily 
bread,  and  yet  denied  the  privilege,  is  the  sad- 
dest sight  under  the  sun. 


114 


THE     PAST. 


IPISni    IPA©!?, 


BY    REV.    O.    H.     A.     B0LKLEY. 


The  past !  the  past !  the  aged  past ! 

What  varied  forms  it  takes, 
What  light  and  shade  are  o'er  it  cast, 

What  myriad  thoughts  it  wakes  ! 
Who  that  has  buried  in  its  grave 

The  corpses  of  its  years, 
Hath  not  beheld,  with  heart  less  brave. 

Its  ghost-like  hopes  and  fears  ? 


The  past !  the  past !  the  changeful  past, 

How  like  a  form  of  love  ! 
It  seemeth  now  mid  skies  o'ercast, 

In  flight  a  heaven-born  dove  ; 
How  oft  from  Life's  lone  ark  it  flees, 

And  to  us  comes  again. 
To  bring  the  olive-leaf  of  peace 

That  notes  the  end  of  rain. 


Oft  like  some  high  cathedral's  walls 

In  solemn  gloom  it  towers. 
While  through  the  stained  glass  window  falls 

The  light  of  chequered  hours. 
And  through  its  dim  aisles  human  forms 

Move  darkly  to  and  fro, 
Escaped  from  all  the  wildering  storms 

In  outer  courts  that  blow. 


The  past !  it  blooms  with  many  a  flower 

Of  joyous  life  once  found  ; 
It  stands  in  gardens  bright  a  bower. 

With  roses  all  around. 
Oft  in  its  shade  our  spirits  rest. 

Fanned  by  the  airs  of  heaven, 
And  dreams  that  seem  to  us  the  best. 

Live  with  us  till  life's  even. 


Forth  from  its  lofty  pulpit  come  . 

The  holy  sounds  of  truth, 
With  stories  of  the  immortal  home, 

Where  wells  the  font  of  youth  ; 
Or  through  its  echoing  arches  roll 

The  requiems  of  the  dead, 
Whose  organ  tones  wake  in  the  soul 

Emotions  ever  dread. 


The  past !  a  palace  wide  'tis  now, 

Where  royal  thoughts  abide. 
Where  courtier-words  in  homage  bow. 

And  subjects  gaze  in  pride  ; 
Where  princely  retinues  move  round 

In  music's  robes  arrayed. 
While  in  their  midst  the  mind  unbound 

Stands  with  its  shining  blade. 


The  past,  'tis  changed  !  a  sepulchre, 

A  charnel-house  it  is. 
Where  lie  the  bones  of  those  that  were 

Like  us  the  heirs  of  bliss ; 
Alas  !  what  heaps  of  fleshless  forms 

Are  piled  up  on  its  shelves. 
And  on  them  feed  what  reptile  worms, 

Where  death,  the  miser,  delves. 

How  fast  its  silent  walls  are  filled 

With  all  the  heart's  dear  hopes  ; 
I  low  by  its  damps  the  soul  is  chilled 

When  mid  its  gloom  she  gropes  ; 
And  ah  !  what  noxious  vapors  crowd 

Within  its  poisoned  air  ; 
What  rotten  shapes  beneath  each  shroud 

Its  clicerless  mansions  share. 


Yet  oh,  the  past !  'tis  always  sad, 

Whatever  forms  it  takes  ; 
For  ne'er  its  images,  though  glad. 

To  real  being  wakes  ; 
But  oft  the  loving  memory  keeps 

Lone  vigils  o'er  its  dead, 
And  seeks  amid  Time's  slaughtered  heaps 

The  jewelled  hearts  that  bled. 

A  sea-struck  mariner  it  stands 

Upon  life's  stormy  shore. 
And  views,  disparted  on  the  sands. 

The  fond  heart's  only  store. 
Sadly  and  solemnly  it  toils 

To  gather  up  again 
The  relics  of  the  wave-cast  spoils. 

Strewn  o'er  the  dcscrt-main. 


GOLD    THREADS. 


115 


But  never  may  they  live  to  cheer 

Our  bosoms  with  their  light ; 
For  quenched  is  every  ray  that  here 

Shone  on  us  in  delight 
We  have  no  god-like  power  to  call 

Their  being  back  to  earth  ; 
We  cannot  build  their  crumbled  wall ; 

We  cannot  give  new  birth. 

Then  scorn  the  past,  a  changeful  thing, 

A  trustless  guide  it  is ; 
Pierce  not  its  gloom,  'twill  only  bring 

The  skeletons  of  bliss ; 


Seek  not  its  light,  'twill  only  lead 

Down  to  the  wards  of  death. 
Or  into  fields  where  beauties  bleed 

And  wither  at  a  breath. 

But  grasp  the  present,  wield  its  axe, 

The  future's  shapes  to  hew  ; 
Dig  in  its  heart,  its  full  strength  tax, 

And  form  life's  hopes  anew. 
Oh !  if  thy  soul  shall  chain  each  hour 

A  servant  to  thy  will, 
How  high  towards  heaven  thy  home  shall  tower, 

And  thou  be  conqueror  still ! 


©(DIEj®   f lErmig aids 


By    ANNE    C      LYNCH. 


A  GREAT  writer  benefits  us  in  two  ways — 
by  revealing  to  us  the  mysteries  of  our  own 
souls,  and  the  wonders  of  the  external  world. 

Taste  should  be  educated,  not  by  contem- 
plation of  the  tolerable  good,  but  of  the  truly 
excellent.  When  you  have  thoroughly  appre- 
hended the  best,  you  will  have  a  standard,  and 
know  how  to  value  inferior  performances. 

Poetesses. — These  beings  have  been  unfor- 
tunate in  love,  and  they  seek  compensation  in 
intellectual  pursuits. 

Humanity  is  the  sum  of  all  men  taken  to- 
gether, and  each  is  only  so  far  worthy  of  esteem 
as  he  knows  how  to  appreciate  all. 

He  from  whom  we  would  learn  must  be 
congenial  with  our  own  nature. 

We  are  not  obliged  to  utter  our  highest 
maxims,  except  when  they   can  benefit  the 
world.    Let  us  keep  them  within  ourselves   \ 
when  they  are  not  likely  to  do  good  without,  < 
and  they  will  diffuse  over  our  actions  the  mild   ^ 
radiance  of  a  hidden  sun.  \ 

The  poet  deserves  not  the  name  when  he    < 
only  speaks  out  those  few  feelings  that  are  his   \ 
as  an  individual ;  only  when  he  can  appropri- 
ate and  tell  the  story  of  the  world  is  he  a  poet. 

The  poets  write  as  if  they  were  all  sick  and 
the  world  a  lazaretto.  This  is  a  sad  abuse  of 
poetry,  which  was  given  ns  to  smooth  away 
the  rough  places  of  life,  and  make  man  sr.tisficd 
with  the  world  and  his  situation. 


Passions  and  emotions  may  be  made  popular, 
but  reason  remains  the  property  of  the  elect 
few. 

Man  needs  sympathy  and  suggestion  to  do 
any  thing  well. 

The  picture  of  Peter  sinking  is  a  beautiful 
history.  It  expresses  the  noble  doctrine,  that 
through  faith  and  courage  man  may  come  off 
victor  in  the  most  dangerous  enterprises,  while 
he  may  be  ruined  by  a  momentary  paroxysm  of 
doubt. 

Hate  injures  no  one ;  it  is  contempt  that  casts 
men  headlong. 

The  native  land  of  the  poet  is  the  good,  the 
noble,  the  beautiful ;  confined  to  no  province  or 
country. 

The  PanegjTists  of  Richter  have  named 
him,  "  I  am  Paul  the  only." 

Reason  has  two  modes  of  activity  ;  one  spon- 
taneous, and  the  other  reflective.  The  sponta- 
neous, universally  developed,  furnishes  the 
beliefs  of  all  men,  and  is  called  common  sense. 
The  reflective  reason  gives  philosophy,  and  is 
awakened  in  but  a  small  part  of  mankind ; 
hence  there  are  few  philosophers. 

Fichte  says  there  is  a  divine  idea  pervading 
the  universe.  The  universe  is  but  its  symbol, 
having  in  itself  no  meaning,  or  even  existence, 
independent  of  it.  To  the  mass  of  men  this 
divine  idea  is  hidden  ;  yet  to  discern  it,  and  to 
live  wholly  in  it,  is  the  condition  of  all  virtue, 


116 


GOLD    THREADS. 


knowledge,  and  freedom.     Literary  men  are 
the  appointed  interpreters  of  this  idea. 

Carlyle  says  of  Wilhelm  Meister :  "  The 
problem  stated  in  Werter  with  despair  of  its 
solution,  is  here  solved.  The  lofty  enthusiasm 
that  wandered  wildly  over  the  universe,  has 
here  reached  its  appointed  home.  This  peace 
has  not  been  attained  by  any  compact  with 
necessity  or  delusion,  not  the  peace  that  years 
and  dispiritment  will  bring,  for  this  is  like  the 
Romans,  who  made  a  solitude,  and  called  it 
peace." 

Manhood  begins  when  we  have  surrendered 
to  necessity,  but  it  begins  joyfully  and  hope- 
fully only  when  we  have  reconciled  ourselves 
to  necessity,  and  thus  in  reality  triumphed  over 
it,  and  felt  that  in  necessity  we  are  free. 

The  great  defect  in  Burns'  character  was  a 
want  of  true  religious  principle — of  morals, 
(in  comparison  with  Milton  and  others.)  They 
had  constantly  before  them  a  high,  heroic 
idea  of  religion,  patriotism,  and  heavenly  wis- 
dom. The  golden  calf  of  self-love  was  not 
their  deity,  but  they  worshipped  the  Invisible 
Goodness. 

There  is  a  condescending  patronage,  there 
are  oblique  hints,  nice  and  fine  distinctions,  in 
polished  circles,  which  divide  one  rank  from 
another,  and  which  allow  you  to  be  galled 
without  the  pleasure  of  feeling  justified  in  the 
offence. 

One  is  never  sure  of  a  man's  wisdom,  until  he 
has  been  really  and  vainly  in  love. 

The  drops  that  trickle  within  the  cavern 
harden,  yet  brighten  with  spars  as  they  indu- 
rate. Nothing  is  more  cold,  nothing  more 
polished,  than  that  wisdom  which  is  the  work 
of  former  tears  and  of  former  passions,  and  is 
formed  within  a  musing  and  solitary  mind. 

There  is  in  some  persons  a  feeling  which 
teaches  them  when  to  forego  the  forms  of  pro- 
priety for  the  essence  of  it. 

It  is  the  business  of  poetry,  and  indeed  of  all 
works  of  the  imagination,  to  exhibit  the  species 
through  the  individual. 

The  vices  are  never  so  well  employed  as  in 
combating  one  another.  Tyranny  and  servility 
are  to  be  dealt  with  after  their  own  fashion,  or 
they  will  triumph  over  those  who  spare  them. 

lago  is  an  amateur  of  tragedy  in  real  life; 
and  instead  of  exercising  his  ingenuity  on 
imaginary  characters  or  long-forgotten  inci- 
dents, he  takes  the  bolder  and  more  dcapcrato 
course  of  getting  up  his  plot  at  home ;  casts 
the  principal  parts  among  his  nearest  friends 


and  connections,  and  rehearses  in  downright 
earnest  with  steady  nerves  and  unabated  resolu- 
tion. His  moral  constitution  digests  only  poisons. 
The  most  wonderful  thing  in  Shakspeare's 
faculties  is  their  excessive  sociability,  and  how 
they  gossipped  and  compared  notes  together. 

Vulgarity  is  not  natural  but  conventional 
coarseness,  learned  from  others  without  an 
entire  conformity  of  natural  power  and  dispo- 
sition, as  fashion  is  the  commonplace  affecta- 
tion of  what  is  elegant  and  refined,  and  without 
any  feeling  of  the  essence  of  it. 

The  language  of  poetry  is  superior  to  the 
language  of  painting,  because  the  strongest  of 
our  recollections  relate  to  feelings,  not  to  faces. 

Homer  appears  the  most  original  of  all 
writers,  probably  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
we  can  trace  the  plagiarism  no  farther. 

Every  thing  is  true  by  which  thou  art  made 
better. 

Poets  are  sometimes  the  echoes  of  words  of 
which  they  know  not  the  povt^er — the  trumpet 
that  sounds  to  battle  and  feels  not  what  it 
inspires. 

Poetry  is  the  apotheosis  of  sentiment. 

Genius  has  not  the  privilege  of  being  tried 
by  its  peers. 

One  misfortune  of  extraordinary  geniuses  is 
that  their  very  friends  are  more  apt  to  admire 
than  to  love  them. 

What  is  passing  in  the  heart  of  another 
rarely  escapes  the  observation  of  one  who  is  a 
strict  anatomist  of  his  own. 

Madame  Roland  says  :  "  I  thought  mamage 
an  austere  union,  in  which  the  woman  usually 
burdens  herself  with  the  happiness  of  two  indi- 
viduals." 

Robespierre  said  :  "  If  God  did  not  exist,  it 
would  behoove  man  to  invent  him." 

To  inform  people  of  their  rights  before  in- 
structing them,  and  making  them  familiar  with 
their  duties,  leads  naturally  to  the  abuse  of 
liberty  and  the  usurpation  of  individuals.  It  is 
like  opening  a  passage  for  the  torrent  before  a 
channel  has  been  prepared  to  receive  it,  or 
banks  to  direct  its  course. 

An  empty  human  heart !  an  abyss  earth's 
depths  cannot  match. 

Cultivation  of  mind  is  the  gift  of  luxury ; 
strength  of  mind  is  the  gift  of  misfortune. 

We  are  contented  because  we  are  happy, 
and  not  happy  because  we  are  contented. 

Those  who  have  failed  as  painters,  turn 
picture-cleaners,  and  those  who  have  failed  as 
writers  turn  reviewers. 


FAITH. 


U7 


IF*  AHf  is^ 


In  the  blessings  of  this  world  God  has  given 
man  no  boon  dearer  than  his  confidence  in  his 
fellows.  That  implicit  trust  in  all  around  him 
which  every  man  who  studies  the  autobiogra- 
phy written  on  his  own  heart,  can  remember  to 
have  once  possessed,  is  ever  the  surest  index 
of  a  purity  which  has  known  no  evil,  and  a 
happiness  which  has  felt  no  chill. 

What  heart  that  has  groaned  under  the  '/ 
weight  of  maturity  has  not  longed  for  the  light-  \ 
ness  of  youth  ?  And  yet  it  is  but  in  this  all-  < 
trusting  confidence  that  youth  is  better  than 
maturity;  for  the  cares  of  manhood  are  but 
food  for  its  strength.  And  so  it  is  that  this 
trusting  is  to  be  desired  for  its  own  sake,  for 
,th8  very  present  joy  it  gives  the  heart  from 
which  it  springs.  Confidence  asks  and  receives 
nothing  from  the  world  external.  Nay,  it 
teaches  rather  that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive.  Like  love,  of  which  it  is  so 
essential  a  part,  "  it  gives  itself,  but  is  not 
bought."  It  pours  itself  out  to  the  world  like 
springing  water  upon  a  thirsty  desert,  which 
drains  the  fount  that  would  gladden  it,  turns 
the  bright  gift  to  nought  but  pestilential  vapor, 
and  leaves  but  the  scorched  channel  and  the 
exhausted  fountain  to  tell  the  wasted  blessing. 
It  is  the  plant  whose  leaves  soonest  shrink  from 
the  eager  grasp  of  selfishness;  the  flower 
whose  petals  first  close  under  the  sky  of  burn- 
ing ingratitude.  It  is  the  first,  the  purest,  and 
the  brightest  jewel  which  the  soul  parts  with 
to  buy  a  wisdom  which  causes  disquiet,  and  a 
knowledge  which  brings  contamination. 

This  confidence,  when  elevated  from  the 
erring  to  the  perfect,  from  the  finite  to  the  in- 
finite, from  man  to  God,  becomes  faith ;  and 
with  the  change  attributes  are  added,  and  quali- 
ties are  made  inherent  in  it,  which  become  the 
purity,  the  perfection,  and  the  power,  on  which 
it  is  placed.  It  offers  its  hand  for  all  eternity, 
and  from  eternity  comes  forth  an  almighty 
hand  whose  pressure  is  that  of  boundless  love, 
whose  grasp  there  is  no  fear  to  relax,  no  self- 
interest  to  slacken.  This  faith  is  as  essential 
to  our  spiritual,  as  our  confidence  is  to  our 
temporal  happiness.  Nay  more,  for  its  exer- 
cise is  the  increase  of  that  happiness,  while 


our  keenest  earthly  sorrow  is  inflicted  by  vio- 
lated confidence.  Every  act  of  faith  is  but  a 
stepping-stone  to  firmer  faithfulness  ;  the  more 
we  trust  our  God,  the  more  we  long  to  trust 
him  ;  while  many  a  confiding  act  towards  our 
fellows  is  but  one  step  towards  the  depths  of 
uncharitable  misanthropy,  or  the  dead  level  of 
selfish  indifference. 

God's  goodness  then,  as  well  as  his  omnis- 
cience, is  shown  in  leaving  much  to  be  to  us 
matter  of  faith,  and  not  of  knowledge.  His 
far-seeing  love  spreads  the  dark  veil  on  which 
his  almighty  will  writes,  ".Thus  far  and 
no  farther."  Here  man's  justly-boasted  reason 
stops.  Here  stands  the  mighty  in  intellect 
with  the  feeble ;  the  man-Christian  with  the 
babe  in  Christ.  And  who  but  he  who  drew 
the  veil,  can  say,  if  it  were  lifted,  and  the  eyes 
which  seek  to  pierce  its  mysterious  folds  were 
allowed  to  rest  on  what  it  hides,  whether  the 
hidden  might  not  be  the  incomprehensible  ; 
and  the  incomprehensible  is  ever  a  greater 
stumbling-block  than  the  unrevealed.  Then 
would  the  mighty  be  confounded  in  his  strength, 
and  the  feeble  overwhelmed  in  his  weakness, 
the  old  bewildered  in  his  experience,  and  the 
babe  lost  in  its  ignorance.  Then  on  the  sea 
of  their  doubts,  and  in  the  tempest  of  their  con- 
fusion, would  all  be  lost,  because  not  firmly 
stayed  on  the  anchor  which  is  within  the  veil — 
the  faith  which  is  the  evidence  of  things  not 
seen. 

But  real  faith  forbids  Its  possessor  to  seek 
what  God  has  denied.  As  the  confidence 
which  asks  proof  is  no  longer  confidence,  so 
the  faith  which  seeks  knowledge  is  no  longer 
faith.  -  Faith  must,  from  its  nature,  ever  be 
perfect,  for  trust  which  is  not  perfect  implies 
suspicion.  Like  a  solitary  column  unsupported 
save  by  its  own  base,  if  strong,  it  may  resist 
the  shock  of  the  earthquake  ;  but  while  erect  it 
points  as  duly  heavenward  in  feebleness  as  in 
strength,  and  if  it  fall  from  the  pride  of  its 
strength,  it  will  but  sink  deeper  in  the  dust 
which  the  winds  of  scepticism  have  gathered 
at  its  base. 

And  if  Faith  never  realize  her  belief  she  is 
yet  to  be  much  sought  for  the  happiness  she 


118 


SHADOW.— BENEVOLENCE. 


yields,  where  else  would  be  dark  doubt  and 
troubled  suspicion.  If  she  gain  us  nothing, 
she  loses  us  nothing ;  and  surely  he  who  en- 
joys by  anticipation  is  better  than  he  who  enjoys 
not  at  all.  He  who  gazes  on  a  star  and  fondly 
believes  it  will  be  the  bright  home  of  himself 
and  those  he  loves,  may  win  laughter  at  his 
self-credulity ;  but  is  he  not  happier  than  the 
blind,  who  has  no  star  to  look  upon  ? 


There  are  three  which  are  inseparable — 
Faith,  Hope,  and  I^ove — but  first  comes  Love, 
and  afterwards  Hope,  and  then  Faith  is  born  of 
these  two.  And  if  she  have  the  trust  of  Love, 
but  be  denied  his  ardor,  so  she  is  given  the 
anticipation  of  Hope  without  her  uncer- 
tainty. 


SE  AUD©  w 


Baseless  vision !  well-a-day. 

Life's  a  shadow  all  the  way  ! 

If  you  doubt  me,  listen  now. 

Let  me  tell  you  why  and  how. 

Shadow,  infant,  shadow,  man  ; 

Show  me  substance  if  you  can  ! 

Turn  and  turn  it  as  you  may, 

Life's  a  shadow  all  the  way ! 

Infancy  assumes  a  smile, 

Only  shadow  all  the  while ; 

While  we  ask  if  it  be  truth, 

Childhood  verges  into  youth  ! 

Youth,  the  time  of  books  and  school, 

Dreadful  shadow,  dreading  fool ! 

Horrid  lessons,  hard  to  say, 

Horrid  shadows  in  the  way. 

Swift  we  come  to  man's  estate  ; 

Would  its  shadow  then  but  wait ! 

But  it  hasteth  on  to  see 

Our  meridian  degree, 

O'er  the  dial  of  our  day 

Pass  like  morning  mist  away  ; 

All  the  shadows  of  life's  sun 

Gone,  before  they  seemed  begun ! 

Cupid  slyly  slips  a  dart. 

Shoots  us  through  and  through  the  heart ; 

Ah,  how  dismal !  ah,  how  drear ! 

What  emotions  lurking  here ; 


Cannot  come,  nor  stay,  nor  go. 
Some  sweet  shadow  haunting  so  ! 
Stern  as  winter,  mild  as  May, 
Neither  scared  nor  coaxed  away. 
Shadow  oft  the  wedded  life ; 
Every  boy  must  have  a  wife  : 
Every  maiden  will  be  wed. 
Hits  the  nail  upon  the  head. 
Sure  of  happiness  complete  ; 
What  a  shadow  !  what  deceit ! 
When  the  nuptial  link  is  tied. 
Shadow,  husband !  shadow,  bride  ! 
Folly  urges,  fashion  drives, 
Mortals  all  their  mortal  lives  ; 
E'er  so  gay,  or  e'er  so  grand, 
Shadow,  and  a  rope  of  sand ! 
Unsubstantial  at  the  best, 
Cannot  bear  affection's  test ; 
Turn  and  turn  it  as  we  may, 
Life's  a  shadow  all  the  way  ! 
Yet,  be  happy.  Age,  or  Youth, 
We  have  still  the  Word  of  Truth. 
No  delusive  shadow  here. 
Firm,  consoling,  and  sincere. 
If  you  doubt  me,  listen  now, 
Let  me  tell  you  why  and  how. 
Comes  it  glorious  from  above, 
Word  of  Truth,  and  Life,  and  Love. 


IBIgMIg¥(DILIgH(BIgo 

From    the    German,    by    Mrs.    St.     Simon 


On  a  summer's  day  Theophron  went  upon  a 
short  journey  on  foot  with  his  son.  Their  way 
let!  through  various  avenues  planted  with 
fruit-trees,  which  bore  abundantly  this  year. 

But  Theophron's  son  had  oftentimes  been 
harsh  and  unkind  towards  the  poor  and  needy, 
and  they  had  to  implore  him  long  before  ho 
would  give  them  the  most  trilling  alms. 


The  father  had  observed  tliis,  and  he  neg- 
lected no  opportunity  to  correct  this  fault. 

"  If  man  but  resembled  one  of  these  fruit- 
trees  !"  exclaimed  Theophron. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  father  ?"  asked  Selmar, 
for  this  was  the  name  of  the  boy. 

"  Consider  over  these  trees,"  said  Theophron, 
"  how,  blessed  with  ripo  fruit,  they  bend  Uieir 


THE    BLOSSOMING     VINE. 


119 


branches  to  the  wa}-farer ;  of  themselves  they 
pour  forth  of  their  abundance,  and  do  not  wait 
for  man  to  implore  it  from  them." 

Selmar  felt  confused,  and  his  father  con- 
tinued: "Behold,  Nature  teaches  us  in  a 
thousand  ways,  if  we  would  but  listen  to  our 
instructress !" 

At  the  foot  of  a  hill  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  road,  some  laborers  were  busy  at  work  in 
a  mine,  removing  the  golden  ore.  The  two 
travellers  turned  their  steps  thitherward,  and 
the  father  said  to  the  son :  "  Behold  how  this 
mine  puts  the  hard-hearted  man  to  shame !" 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  Selmar. 

"  It  gives  its  costly  treasures  more  readily 
than  he,"  replied  the  father. 

Selmar  was  silent. 

But  the  father  spake  much  on  this  subject 
nntil  they  reached  the  end  of  their  journey. 
They  passed  the  day  at  a  kinsman's,  and  to- 


wards evening  returned  to  their  own  dwell- 
ing. 

When  they  liad  nearly  reached  their  home, 
the  clouds  shed  their  refreshing  rain,  and 
watered  the  thirsty  fields. 

"The  heavens  seem  to  have  purposed  to 
give  us  a  lesson  to^ay,"  said  Theophron  to 
his  son,  "  to  display  the  virtue  of  benevolence 
in  the  clearest  light,  for  I  feel  as  if  these  cor- 
dial drops  called  out :  '  Imiiate  us !  We 
descend  willingly  ichen  the  dauds  are  fraught 
with  the  refreshing  blessing,  and  do  not  wait  for 
the  complaints  of  the  parched  earth.*  Did  I  not 
tell  you  that  we  had  a  wise  instructress  in 
Nature  ?" 

And  Selmar  took  his  father's  words  to  heart, 
and  henceforth  he  anticipated  the  wants  of  the 
poor  and  wretched ;  and  as  he  grew  older,  he 
became  like  a  fruitful  tree  to  the  hungry,  and 
to  the  thirsty  a  fountain  of  running  water. 


I'rasn  tiw  Gcnnan  of  TT'iH'iimw^Tmrj  |^  Bbs.  St.  Smon. 


SAJnxEi,,  the  judge  and  ruler  in  Israel,  one 
day  visited  the  school  of  the  prophets,  which 
be  had  himself  established,  at  Naioth,  and  he 
rejoiced  at  the  progress  of  the  young  men  in 
manifold  wisdom,  and  in  the  art  of  playing 
upon  stringed  instruments,  and  in  song. 

Among  them  was  a  youth  named  Adonija, 
the  son  of  Milcha.  And  Samuel  found  plea- 
sure in  the  boy.  For  his  face  was  brown  and 
beautiful,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  sweet 
and  strong.  But  his  soul  was  puffed  up  with 
pride  and  \-ain  conceit,  because  he  excelled  the 
others  in  knowledge  and  in  skill.  He  esteemed 
himself  wiser  than  seven  wise  men,  and  be- 
haved presumj^usly  towards  his  teachers,  and 
his  mouth  was  full  of  lofty  words  and  idle 
imaginations. 

The  judge  of  Israel  grieved  over  the  boy 
Adonija,  for  he  loved  him  more  than  all  the 
others,  because  he  was  comely 'and  wise  be- 
yond his  years.  Therefore  Samuel  said: 
"  The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  has  chosen  the  boy  to 
b3  a  prophet  ia  Israel,  but  he  strives  against  it 
and  seeks  to  set  it  at  nought." 

And  he  led  the  young  man  into  the  moun- 
tains to  a  vineyard,  which  lieth  towards  Ramah. 
And  lo,  it  was  the  season  when  the  vine  was 
in  blossom. 


Then  Samuel  lifted  np  his  voice  and  said 
"  Adonija,  what  see'st  thou  ?" 

And  Adonija  answered :  "I  see  a  vineyard, 
and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  vine-blossom  fills 
the  air  round  about  me." 

Then  Samuel  said :  "  Draw  nearer,  and  look 
at  the  blossom  of  the  vine." 

And  the  youth  drew  near,  and  considered  it, 
and  said :  "  It  is  a  delicate  flower,  unsightly  in 
colour,  and  humble  in  form." 

Then  Samuel  answered,  and  said :  "  And 
still  it  bringeth  forth  a  divine  fruit,  to  rejoice 
the  heart  of  man,  and  to  renovate  his  form  that 
it  shine  with  beauty.  Such,  Adonija,  is  the 
noble  growth  of  the  vine  at  the  time  of  its 
blossoming,  before  it  brings  forth  its  pleasant 
firuiL  Remember  the  vine,  then,  in  the  days 
of  the  blossoming  of  thy  youth  !" 

And  Adonija,  the  son  of  Milcha,  look  all 
these  words  of  Samuel  to  heart,  and  thence- 
forward grew  mild  and  soft  in  spirit. 

Then  all  those  who  knew  Adonija  loved 
him,  and  said  :  "  The  Spirit  of  God  has  fallen 
upon  the  young  man  !" 

But  Adonija  grew  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 
and  became  a  man  like  the  shepherd  of  Tekoa, 
;   and  like  Isaiah  the  son  of  Amoz,  and  his  name 
>    was  honored  in  all  Israel. 


120 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SALABERTRANN. 


insrig  iAf^EjH  ©IP  SAiLiAiMfmiiMKr, 


BY   J.    T.   HEADLET. 


During  the  return  of  the  exiles  to  their  native 
land,  mentioned  in  our  last  article,  occurred  the 
battle  represented  in  the  plate.  Like  the  chil- 
dren of  Isreal  in  their  march  to  Canaan,  the 
Waldenses  were  compelled  to  fight  their  way- 
back  to  their  ancient  altars  and  possessions. 
Their  journey  occupied  thirty-one  days,  and 
was  marked  by  trials,  sufferings,  heroisms,  al- 
most miraculous  escapes,  such  as  are  seldom 
found  in  the  history  of  any  people. 

Having  been  compelled  to  leave  Germany, 
the  exiles,  after  a  while,  found  themselves 
scattered  amid  the  cantons  of  Switzerland,  close 
on  the  confines  of  their  native  land.  They  had 
made  two  attempts  to  return,  but  had  failed  in 
both.  Still,  however,  they  boldly  resolved  on 
a  third.  The  hostility  existing  between  Eng- 
land and  France,  and  the  known  sentiments 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  just  ascended  the 
English  throne,  together  with  the  repoits  of 
spies,  that  the  French  king  had  withdrawn  his 
troops  from  the  farther  side  of  the  mountains, 
encouraged  them  to  make  one  more  effort  to 
regain  their  land.  As  stated  in  the  preceding 
article,  M.  Arnaud,  a  clergyman,  headed  the 
expedition.  Having  assembled  in  the  forest  of 
Nyon,  they  waited  for  the  arrival  of  their  breth- 
ren from  the  Grisons  and  Wurtemberg.  These 
latter,  to  the  number  of  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
two,  had  agreed  to  join  them;  but  soon  after 
setting  out,  they  were  all  taken  prisoners,  and 
marched  over  the  Alps  to  Turin,  and  thrown 
into  prison.  Finding  at  length  that  it  was 
growing  dangerous  to  wait  longer,  Arnaud,  at 
the  head  of  his  gallant  band,  resolved  to  proceed 
without  delay.  It  had  been  whispered  about 
that  the  exiles  were  plotting  some  new  expedi- 
tion, which  caused  many  strangers  to  seek  the 
forest  of  Nyon,  Iwrdering  on  Lake  Geneva. 
Of  the  unexpected  supply  of  boats  furnished  by 


them,  Arnaud  immediately  tooK  advantage, 
and,  pressing  them  into  temporary  service,  com- 
menced the  passage  of  the  lake.  When  all  was 
ready,  Arnaud,  who  had  assumed  the  name  of 
M.  de  la  Tour,  stepped  into  the  midst  of  his 
followers,  and  uncovering  his  head,  knelt  on  the 
ground,  and  offered  up  a  fervent  prayer  that 
God  would  smile  on  their  endeavors.  Having 
thus  committed  their  cause  to  Heaven,  the 
Waldenses  shoved  their  boats  from  the  shore. 
It  was  a  warm  August  night,  and  a  little  be- 
fore midnight,  that  frail  fleet  might  have  been, 
seen  gliding  over  the  blue  waters  of  Lake  Ge- 
neva. No  sooner  did  they  step  ashore  than  they 
formed  in  order  of  battle — in  one  column,  com- 
posed of  nineteen  companies  in  all,  they  started 
on  their  perilous  march.  Of  their  difiiculties^ 
by  the  way,  danger  from  treachery,  deceit,  and' 
open  hostility,  we  can  mention  but  a  moiety. 
In  a  solid  phalanx,  with  their  scouts  thrown 
out  on  every  side,  and  their  arms  in  their  hands, 
and  shut  out  from  all  reinforcements,  they  bold- 
ly entered  the  heart  of  a  hostile  country,  deter- 
mined to  cut  their  way  through  it,  and  driving 
out  the  occupants  of  their  homes,  take  and 
maintain  possession  of  them.  Every  village 
rung  its  alarm-bells  at  their  approach,  and 
armed  bands  of  peasants  prepared  to  dispute 
tiicir  passage ;  but  the  firm  order  and  presence 
of  the  Waldenses  awed  them  into  respect,  and 
forced  them  to  supply  provisions  and  guides. 
Now  and  then  £f  skirmish  took  place,  and  a  few 
were  killed ;  but  the  bold  Waldenses'  kept  on 
their  way  for  a  long  time  without  any  serious 
obstacles,  except  what  the  Alps  presented. 
Through  gloomy  gorges,  where  twenty  brave 
men  could  liave  withstood  a  hundred,  and  over 
snow-covered  heights,  they  passed  on  until  they 
at  length  reached  the  base  of  the  "  Hauto 
Luce." 


.*  * 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SALABERTRANN. 


121 


This  mountain  was  covered  with  snow  and 
enveloped  in  fog ;  yet  up  its  steep  sides  pressed 
the  wanderers.  The  guides  endeavored  to 
lead  them  astray  into  the  ravines  that  intersect 
it,  where  they  might  wander  around  until  the 
Savoyards  could  arrive,  and  cut  their  throats. 
,  But  Arnaud,  detecting  the  foul  play,  threatened 
'to  hang  them  if  they  did  not  conduct  his  band 
safely,  and  thus  frightened  them  out  of  their 
treachery.  Up  steps  cut  in  the  rocks,  they 
mounted  in  single  file,  and,  at  lengtli,  reached 
'  the  summit.  Thence,  sliding  down,  one  after 
;:  another,  on  their  backs,  guided  only  by  the 
white  snow,  they  reached,  late  at  night,  a  few 
.shepherds'  huts,  at  the  base,  which  they  un- 
roofed to  provide  themselves  with  fuel.  A 
cold  and  drenching  rain,  which  lasted  till  morn- 
ing, chilled  their  frames,  and  they  arose  be- 
numbed, yet  still  resolute,  to  commence  the 
fourth  day's  march.  In  soft  snow,  a  foot  deep, 
and  pelted  by  an  Alpine  storm,  they  began  the 
ascent  of  the  Col  de  Bonne  Homme.  Along 
this  pass  of  7500  feet  high,  forts  had  been  erect- 
ed by  the  enemy,  and  the  Waldenses  expected 
every  moment  a  sanguinary  conflict ;  but  their 
prayers  had  been  heard,  and  silence  and  solitude 
reigned  over  the  entrenchments.  Now  hanging 
above  an  Alpine  cliff,  at  midnight — now  kin- 
ling  their  camp  fires  in  some  quiet  meadow — 
now  swallowed  up  in  a  fearful  gorge,  and  now 
threading  a  quiet  valley,  they  slowly  but  steadily 
approached  their  former  home.  At  length  they 
reached  the  foot  of  Mount  Cenis,  where,  it  was 
reported,  troops  were  waiting  to  receive  them. 
Nothing  daunted,  and,  trusting  in  that  God 
whose  protection  they  had  invoked,  they  began 
the  ascent.  No  language  can  describe  the 
horrors  of  this  passage.  The  exiles  lost  their 
way,  and  stumbled  about  in  frightful  gorges. 
Several  men  were  lost  and  taken  prisoners,  and 
gloom  began  to  gather  over  the  path  of  the  ex- 
iles. At  the  foot  of  the  Touliers  they  sounded 
their  trumpets  a  long  time  to  recall  the  fugi- 
tives who  had  lost  their  way,  and  then  marched 
on.  Upon  the  summit  they  saw,  through  the 
thick  fog  that  crowned  the  height,  a  band  of 
two  hundred  armed  men,  advancing  with  beat- 
ing drums  to  the  charge.  The  latter,  however, 
gave  way,  and  the  exiles  kept  on  until  they 
^  came  within  three  miles  of  the  village  of  Sal- 
?  bertrann.  Tliis  was  the  eighth  day  of  their 
march,  and,  weary  and  hungry,  they  inquired 
of  a  peasant  if  they  could  obtain  provisions  at 
the  village.  "  Go  on,"  he  replied,  "  and  they 
will  give  you  all  that  you  desire,  and  are  now 


preparing  a  warm  supper  for  you."  The  Wal- 
denses understood  the  hint,  but  kept  on  until 
within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  a  bridge  that 
crossed  the  Doria,  when  they  descried  in  the 
depth  of  the  valley  nearly  forty  camp  fires 
burning.  The  Christians  were  in  need  of  rest 
and  food,  but  before  they  could  obtain  either,  a 
fierce  and  unequal  battle  must  be  fought. 
They  kept  on,  however,  until  the  vanguard  fell 
into  an  ambuscade,  and  a  sharp  firing  of  mus- 
ketry awoke  the  echoes  of  the  Alps.  The  in- 
trepid Arnaud  saw  that  a  crisis  had  indeed 
come.  Before  him  was  a  well-appointed 
French  army,  two  thousand  five  hundred  strong, 
and  commanding  a  narrow  bridge.  Halting 
his  tired  column,  he  ordered  them  all  to  kneel, 
and  there,  in  the  still  evening,  he  offered  up 
prayer  to  the  God  of  battles,  that  he  would 
save  them  from  the  destruction  that  seemed  in- 
evitable. Scarcely  had  the  solemn  prayer 
died  away  upon  the  evening  air,  before  the  rat- 
tUng  of  arms  was  heard,  and,  in  one  dense 
column,  the  exiles  pressed  straight  for  the 
bridge. 

As  they  approached,  the  sentinels  on  the 
farther  side  cried  out,  "  Qui  vive !"  to  which 
the  Waldenses  replied,  "Friends,  if  they  are 
suffered  to  pass  on !"  Instantly  the  shout, 
"  Kill  them !  kill  them !"  rang  through  the 
darkness,  and  then  the  order  "  fire  !"  was  heard 
along  the  ranks.  In  a  moment,  more  than  two 
thousand  muskets  opened  on  the  bridge,  and  it 
rained  a  leaden  storm  its  whole  length  and 
breadth.'  They  expected,  and  rightly,  that 
under  such  a  well-directed  fire,  the  little  band 
of  exiles  would  be  annihilated ;  and  so  they 
would  have  been  but  for  the  prudence  and  fore- 
sight of  their  pastor  and  leader,  Arnaud.  Ex- 
pecting such  a  reception,  he  had  given  orders 
that  his  followers,  the  moment  they  heard  the 
word  ^'  fire"  from  the  enemy,  should  fall  flat 
on  tiieir  faces.  They  obeyed  him,  and  that 
fiery  sleet  went  drifting  wildly  over  their  heads. 
For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  did  these  heavy  vol- 
leys continue,  enveloping  that  bridge  in  flame; 
yet  during  the  whole  time  but  one  Waldensian 
was  wounded.  At  length,  however,  a  firing 
was  heard  in  the  rear  :  the  troops  that  had  let 
them  pass  on  the  mountain  in  the  morning, 
had  followed  after,  on  purpose  to  prevent  their 
escape  from  the  snare  that  had  been  set  for 
them.  Crushed  between  two  powerful  bodies 
of  soldiers,  with  two  thousand  muskets  blazing 
in  their  faces,  and  a  narrow  bridge  before- 
them,  the  case  of  the  wanderers  seemed  hope- 


VJ2 


SONNET    TO    THE    FIRMAMENT. 


less.  Seeing  that  the  final  hour  had  come, 
Arnaud  ordered  his  followers  to  rise  and  storm 
the  bridge.  Then  occurred  one  of  those  fear- 
,ful  exhibitions  sometimes  witnessed  on  a  battle- 
field. With  one  wild  and  thrilling  shout,  that 
little  band  precipitated  itself  forward.  Through 
the  devouring  fire,  over  the  rattling,  groaning 
bridge,  up  to  the  entrenchments,  and  up  to  the 
points  of  the  bayonets,  they  went  in  one  re- 
sistless wave.  Their  deafening  shouts  drown- 
ed the  roar  of  musketry,  and,  borne  up  by  that 
lofty  enthusiasm  which  has  made  the  hero  in 
every  age,  they  forgot  the  danger  before  them. 
On  the  solid  ranks  they  fell  with  such  terror 
and  suddenness,  that  they  had  not  time  even  to 
flee.  The  enraged  Waldenses  seized  them  by 
the  hail*,  and  trampled  them  under  foot ;  and 
with  their  heavy  sabres  cleaved  them  to  the 
earth.  The  terrified  French  undertook  to 
defend  themselves  with  their  muskets,  and  as 
they  interposed  them  between  tlieir  bodies  and 
the  foe,  the  Waldensian  sabres  struck  fire  on 
the  barrels  till  the  sparks  flew  in  every  direc- 
tion. The  Marquis  of  Larry  strove  for  a  while 
to  bear  up  against  this  overpowering  onset,  but 
finding  all  was  lost,  he  cried  out,  "  Is  it  possible 
I  have  lost  the  battle  and  my  honor  ?"  and  then 
exclaiming  "  Sauve  qui  peuV !  turned  and  fled. 
That  army  of  two  thousand  five  hundred  men 
then  became  a  herd  of  fugitives  in  the  darkness, 
mowed  down  at  every  step  by  the  sword  of  the 
Waldensian.  The  slaughter  was  terrible,  and 
the  victory  complete;  all  the  baggage  and 
stores  were  taken ;  and  at  length,  when  the 
bright  moon  rose  over  the  Alps,  flooding  the 


strange  scene  with  light,  Arnaud  called  his 
little  band  from  the  pursuit.  Having  supplied 
themselves  with  all  the  powder  they  wished, 
they  gathered  the  rest  together,  and  set  fire  to 
it.  A  sudden  blaze  revealed  every  peak  and 
crag,  and  the  entire  field  of  death,  with  the 
brightness  of  noonday — followed  by  an  explo- 
sion like  the  bursting  of  a  hundred  cannon, 
and  which  was  heard  nearly  thirty  miles  in  the 
mountains.  A  deep  silence  succeeded  this 
strange  uproar,  and  then  Arnaud  ordered  all 
the  trumpets  to  sound,  when  every  man  threw 
his  hat  into  the  air,  and  shouted,  "  Thanks  to 
the  Eternal  of  Armies,  who  hath  given  us  the 
victory  over  our  enemies !"  That  glorious 
shout  was  taken  up  and  prolonged  till  the  flee- 
ing foemen  heard  it  in  tne  far  mountain  gorges. 

The  entire  loss  of  the  Waldenses  in  this 
bloody  engagement  did  not  reach  thirty  men, 
while  the  ground  was  cumbered  with  the  dead 
bodies  of  the  French.  The  latter  had  refused 
to  destroy  the  bridge,  and  thus  eflTectually  arrest 
the  progress  of  the  exiles,  because  they  wished 
to  destroy  them.  But  God  had  given  them  the 
victory,  and  their  shout  recalled  to  n:!ind  the 
ancient  shout  of  Judah  in  battle. 

That  night  the  tired  Waldenses  slept  upon 
their  arms  on  the  bloody  field  they  had  won ; 
and  when  the  morning  sun  arose,  there  lay  the 
wrecks  of  the  fight  on  every  side.  In  the 
midst  of  the  trampled  plain,  they  lifted  their 
morning  prayer  and  voice  of  renewed  thanks- 
giving to  Him  who  carried  them  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand ;  and  again  took  up  the  line  of 
march. 


SdDHMlf   IT©   fmi   I^'HrnmAMlMf 


BY    HORACE    DRESSER. 


Vast  Concave  !  what  deep  mysteries  are  tliine  ! — 
Canst  tell  us  wherefore  into  being  came, 
And  how  upheld  in  azure  depths  yon  frame, 

AH  set  with  beauteous  gems,  that  far  outshine 

The  costly  treasures  of  Golconda's  mine  ? 

Art  thou  the  scat  of  gods,  as  ancient  Fame 

Reports — thou  course  of  spheres  and  comet's  flame  ? 

What  beings  dwell  in  tliose  far  worlds  that  beam 

Throughout  the  wide  expanse  of  endless  space  ? 
Are  they  Divinities,  or,  like  our  race, 

Weak  men,  whose  lives  appear  but  as  a  dream  ? 

Blue  Canopy  !  immeasurable  seem 

Thy  bounds  to  us  who  view  thy  fulgent  face — 
Not  BO  to  Him  who  gave  each  star  its  place  ! 


i 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 


123 


ONE  DOCTOR'S  PICTUEE  OF  ANOTHER. 


My  old  and  time-honored  and  respected  friend 

and  counsellor,  Doctor  Charles  M'G n,  who 

rarely  misses  a  day,  that  he  does  not  sit  an 
hour  or  two  in  my  office,  whether  I  am  there  or 
not ;  having  long  since  retired  from  the  cares 
of  his  professional  career,  and  who  has  read  my 
reminiscences  as  they  have  appeared  monthly, 
in  this  Magazine ;  albeit,  he  was  not  in  my 
confidence  as  to  the  authorship,  took  occasion 
on  the  appearance  of  the  Number  for  July,  to 
turn  critic.  He  has  been,  and  is  still,  an  enthu- 
siast in  his  art,  not  only  in  the  detail  and 
drudgery  of  its  practice,  but  also  in  the  obser- 
vation of  character  and  endurance,  as  developed 
under  suffering,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  has 
always  a  warm  and  active  sympathy  with  all 
the  feelings  of  the  patient.  He  is  sixty  years 
old,  and  unmarried. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  the  history  of 
the  last  hours  of  the  Usurer,  as  detailed  in  No. 
3,  of  this  series,  he  laid  down  the  paper,  and 
said  very  deliberately : 

"  It  is  all  very  well.  They  are  capital  inci- 
dents, and  such  as  do  not  occur  in  every  man's 
practice.  A  nd  they  are  very  well  told.  He  is 
a  capital  fellow,  I  know,  that  ^\Tites  them,  and 
I  should  like  to  know  him.  He  sinks  the  trade, 
and  leaves  out  all  the  treatment  and  symptoms, 
and  all  that,  and  brings  out  the  incidents  very 
well.  He's  no  egotist — I  like  that.  And  this 
piece  is  well  carried  out — interest  all  the  way 
through  to  the  end.  Bad  fellow  that  usurer.  I 
would  like  to  know  the  writer ;  I  know  we 
should  like  each  other.  But  there  is  one  thing 
I  think  he  is  making  too  much  of.  He  makes 
a  vein  of  love  run  through  all  his  pieces.  A 
little  too  much  of  it  in  my  opinion." 

"  You  must  consider,  my  dear  sir,"  said  I, 
wilUng  to  defend  the  author,  and  at  the  same 
time  desirous  of  hearing  his  strictures,  '•  vou 
must  consider  that  he  is  \\'riting  for  the  popular 
eye,  and  a  certain  portion  of  this  passion  seems 
necessary — " 

"  Pshaw  !"  said  he,  interrupting  me  ;"  its  all 
twattle — trash— too  much  of  it,  Dr.  P ,  too 


:   much  of  it.  Now,  if  you  or  I  had  written  them, 
we  should  have  made  them  a  different  thing." 

"  I  don't  know  tliat  exactly,  sir,"  I  replied. 
"  You  might  perhaps,  but  I  think  I  should  be 
satisfied  to  have  written  them  just  as  they  are. 
Besides,  you  have  seen  too  much  of  human  na- 
ture, not  to  have  perceived  the  control  this  same 
passion  has  over  the  hearts  of  all  classes  and 
conditions  of  onr  race.  From  our  boyhood  up 
we  all  feel  it,  and,  as  the  writer  of  these  sketch- 
es says,  woman  winds  her  toils  round  and  round 
our  better  feelings.  It  may  be  a  subtle  Delilah 
or  a  gentle,  and  fond,  and  loving  Ruth — some 
one  of  them  finds  a  chain  to^veave  about  us,  and 
then  subdues  us.  You  will  pardon  me,  my 
dear  friend,  if  our  long  and  close  intimacy  gives 
me  the  boldness  to  say,  that  I  have  found  no 
other  way  to  account  for  your  celibacy  but  by 
supposing  that  your  heart  was  once  filled  with 
one  of  these  idols,  and  your  devotion  has  been 
more  lasting  than  that  of  many  others." 

"  While  I  spoke  thus,  the  face  of  my  friend 
became  deeply  solemn  and  thoughtful,  and 
finally  expressive  of  great  emotion.  I  saw  at 
once  that  I  had  touched  upon  even  more  tender 
ground  than  I  had  supposed,  but  he  inquired  : 

"  What  has  led  you  to  form  such  an  opinion  ?" 

"  The  general  fact,"  I  replied,  "  that  we  have 
often  met  at  the  bedside  of  sick  females,  and 
whether  high  or  low,  your  kindness,  and  atten- 
tion, and  sympathy,  has  uniformly  been  of  the 
warmest  kind." 

"  We  owe  it  to  them  as  the  weaker  sex," 
said  he.  "  But  no  more  of  this.  I  think  I 
could  help  the  author  of  these  sketches  to  many 
facts  which  he  could  weave  in,  in  his  way,  with 
great  effect." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "  I  am  greatly  obliged  to 
you." 

"You!" 

"  Yes,  I." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  friend,  I  must  admit  you  into 
my  confidence  in  this  matter.  I  am  the  author 
of  them,  and  they  are  all  veritable  characters." 


124 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORy. 


«  Then  I  must  beg  i)ardoii  for  my  strictures." 

"  Not  at  all.  The  same  thing  I  had  been 
conscious  of,  and  have  filled  out  from  my  notes, 
a  sketch  for  tlie  September  Number,  which  is 
entirely  free  from  the  faults  you  condemn." 

He  sat  some  time  in  silence,  and  his  brow 
was  clouded.  At  length  he  said  : 
■  "  I  was  too  severe,  and  I  will  offer  you  some 
atono:nont.  I  have  the  notes  of  a  case,  which 
you  sliall  have.  I  will  possess  you  of  all  the 
incidents,  and  you  shall  fill  them  out  yourself, 
and  then,  if  ihey  suit  you,  give  them  a  place  in 
your  series.  I  laughed  at  the  love  of  your  cha- 
racters ;  I  will  do  so  no  more.  I  am  sixty  years 
old,  and  a  lover  yet.  But  more  of  that  hereaf- 
ter. The  notes  which  I  shall  give  you,  are  of 
my  own  case  and  another  individual." 

The  following  day  he  fulfilled  his  promise. 
From  his  notes  I  liave  written  out  the  first  part 
of  the  narrative  as  if  his  own.  Part  second,  is 
in  his  own  words.  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
develop  as  much  at  large  as  proper  the  history 
of  his  feelings.  I  give  them  in  the  first  part,  in 
order  that  tlie  reader  may  be  fully  prepared  for 
tlie  deeply  interesting  events  of  the  second.  If 
I  have  been  tedious  in  my  writing,  the  Doctor's 
own  history  and  diary  will  fully  compensate  the 
reader. 

THE   doctor's  love. — PART   I. 

I  am  sixty  years  old,  and  a  lover  yet.  I  love 
a  dream — a  vision — a  phantom.  It  was  once  a 
reality,  but  for  years  has  ceased  to  be  aught 
else  but  one  of  the  ideals  which  we  make  to 
ourselves,  and  clothe  with  human  forms  of 
beauty  and  loveliness,  and  then  bow  down  to 
and  worship,  till  they  fade  away — the  form, 
but  not  Uie  vision.  I'hat  is  here  yet,  by  me  in 
my  day-dreams — beside  me  in  the  silent  night 
— with  me  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places — a 
dream  of  most  surpassing  loveliness.  For  al- 
most forty  years,  it  has  lingered  about  me,  and 
shut  out  many  of  the  realities  of  life,  to  make 
me  sometimes  happy  and  sometimes — wretched. 

It  was  in  the  early  part  of  my  practice,  tliat  I 
was  called  to  visit  the  daiighter  of  a  gentleman 
in  the  place  where  I  had  settled.  Unlike  many 
young  men  who  enter  our  profession,  and  toil 
on  for  years  through  discouragement,  and  heart- 
breaking penury,  l)efore  they  meet  even  a  com- 
fortable support,  I  had  succeeded  at  once  in 
business,  and  that  which  I  did  was  of  the  most 
respectable  families  in  the  place.     But  from 

Mr,  E 1,   the  fatlier  of  the  young  lady  I 

have  just  mcnti  ined  as  being  called  to,  1  had 


received  no  attentions,  and  when  his  daughter 
was  first  taken  sick,  he  called  in  another  phy- 
sician, older  to  be  sure,  and  of  great  e.vperience, 
but  a  man  of  intemperate  habits  and  dissolute 
manners.  The  patient  was  neglected,  and  the 
disease,  which  at  first  was  mild,  and  could  have 
been  easily  controlled,  became  alanningly  se- 
vere. During  a  paroxysm  of  acute  pain  I  was 
sent  for,  and  attended  her  through  the  remain- 
der of  her  sickness,  from  which  she  gradually 
recovered. 

She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  tall  and  graceful, 
with  fair  hair,  and  large  and  laughter-loving 
blue  eyes,  and  during  her  convalesence,  I  spent 
many  happy  hours  by  her  side.  Then  began 
the  dream  from  which  I  have  not  yet  waked — 
from  which  I  shall  not  wake  while  I  live.  Old 
as  I  am,  I  live^in  it  yet,  and  hnger  about  its 
visions  as  I  did  at  that  early  and  passionate 
period  of  my  life.  I  then  began  to  love — to 
love  her — and,  beautiful  as  slie  was,  not  her 
person  nor  her  charms,  but  the  bright  ideal  that 
my  fondness  made  her,  for  I  clothed  her  witli 
charms  that  were  not  her  own,  and  worshipped 
her  with  a  bold  idolatry.  It  may  be  thus  with 
all  men — I  am  inclined  to  believe,  from  my  ob- 
servation of  human  Ufe,  that  it  is,  and  that  when 
in  man-led  life  the  ideal  fades  and  becomes  so- 
ber reality,  both  parties  often  find  themselves 
mistaken. 

I  was  sitting  one  day  by  the  side  of  Ellen, 
when  she  had  nearly  recovered  her  health,  when 
she  asked  me,  for  the  first  time,  if  I  tliought 
she  had  been  dangerously  ill ;  and  then,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  she  continued  : 

"  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  death.  I  know  we 
must  all  die,  but  then  I  cannot  think  of  it,  it  is 
so  terrible.     Life  is  so  dear — so  sweet." 

"  But  what  is  there,"  said  I,  "  to  make  life  so 
sweet  ?" 

'•  O  !  much — very  much,"  she  replied.  "  But 
I  do  not  fear  dcatli  for  itself,  but  for  tlie  associa- 
tions connected  with  it — the  lonely  and  earth- 
cold  grave — the  vile  worm  that  must  feed  on  us 
— but  more  than  all,  the  idea  that  I  may  be 
buried  alive  terrifies  me,  and  makes  me  shud- 
der." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  yet,  what  there  is 
to  make  life  desirable.  These  causes  of  your 
fear  may  all  be  avoided  by  proper  precautions, 
and  you  may  lie  embalmed  in  state,  so  tlmt  your 
body  may  never  perish.  Yet  why  is  it  that 
we  all,  old  and  young,  in  sickness  and  sorrow, 
and  constant  trial,  desire  Ufe,  and  cherish  it  so 
fondly  ?" 


THt:  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


125 


"  O  !  as  I  said  before,  there  is  very  much  to 
live  for — friends,  and  the  fond  hearts  we  gather 
around  us  in  our  days  of  happiness." 

"  They  may  change,  and  become  estranged 
from  us,  and  leave  us  as  lonely  as  if  in  the 
grave.     Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Love,  then — ^love — the  passion  that  sways 
all  our  hopes,  and  fears,  and  desires." 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;"  "  if  indeed,  we  could  ever 
find  the  ever  faithful  and  fond  heart,  that  would 
never  know  change,  nor  grow  cold.  How  often 
in  my  boyhood  have  I  had  such  dreams  ?  And 
they  do  not  leave  me  now  that  my  manhood  is 
growing  upon  me.  It  must  be  happiness  to  be 
loved  truly  and  fondly." 

"  And  have  you  never  been  ?"  she  a^sked 
with  a  smile. 

"  Never,"  I  replied,  and  thus  the  conversation 
ended. 

I  will  not  describe  the  dawning  and  progress 
of  my  love.  Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  as  she 
recovered,  I  found  myself  drawn  to  her  side  ir- 
resistibly, and  felt  more  and  more  every  day 
that  she  was  becoming  dearer  and  dearer  to  me. 
She  recovered,  and  then  I  told  her  my  love,  and 
was  happy  in  the  assurance  that  it  was  re- 
turned. 

How  vividly  present  to  me  at  this  day,  are 
the  hours  I  spent  by  her  side,  happy  in  her 
smiles,  and  sad  in  her  tears !  As  I  became  more 
acquainted  \vith  her,  I  discovered  a  sort  of  way- 
wardness in  her  disposition,  a  hatred  of  re- 
straint, but  she  was  an  only  child,  and  had  long 
been  indulged  with  the  fulfillment  of  every 
wish  and  desire,  and  I  therefore  made  every 
allowance  for  this  trait  in  her  character.  It  was 
the  cause  of  her  ruin  and  my  misery.  Yet  I 
loved  on,  and  my  fondness  for  her  made  me  find 
an  easy  excuse  for  every  failing. 

Let  me  linger  on  these  memories.  Let  me 
recall  her  as  she  then  seemed  to  me,  the  vision 
of  an  earthly  paradise.  But  she  was  not  what 
she  seemed — the  time  was  not  far  distant  when 
all  her  love  and  all  her  professions  were  to  fade 
away,  and  leave  me  a  miserable  wretch.  What 
plans  I  laid  for  the  future — what  hopes  I  built, 
never  to  be  realized  !  I  had  not  taught  myself 
then  the  mastery  of  my  own  heart,  a  lesson  in- 
deed I  have  not  yet  learned. 

About  two  months  after  Ellen  had  recovered 
her  health,  her  father  died  suddenly,  and  her 
mother  survived  the  shock  but  a  few  days.  It 
was  then  that  she  became,  if  possible,  more 
dear  to  me.  I  was  to  supply  the  place  of  those 
she  had  lost ,  and  O  !  how  fondly  did  I  cherish 


her,  and  how  ardently  did  I  strive  to  make  her 
forget  in  my  affection  the  loved  ones  who  were 
gone  !  And  I  succeeded.  She  arose  from  the 
shock,  and  with  all  the  trust  and  confidence  of 
her  passionate  soul,  she  seemed  gratefully  to 
repose  in  my  sympathy  and  affection.  But 
why  do  I  dwell  upon  these  recollections  ?  She 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  I  urged  her  to  ap- 
point an  early  day  on  which  I  could  assume  a 
nearer  title  to  protect  and  love  her.  The  day 
was  fixed  upon,  and  that,  as  soon  as  a  proper 
respect  for  the  customs  of  society  in  such  cases 
would  permit.  In  the  mean  time  she  was  to 
visit  some  of  her  friends  in  Boston,  where  she 
would  remain  till  our  marriage. 

These  were  my  Elysian  days — ^the  happiest 
hours  of  my  life.  I  lived  in  a  continual  bliss- 
ful dream  of  the  future — of  the  time  when, 
bound  to  each  other  by  indissoluble  ties,  we 
would  make  our  life  one  unvar}'ing  scene  of 
joy.  I  saw  nothing — I  could  see  nothing  to 
mar  it  I  would  have  despised  and  hated  the 
man  who  could  speak  a  word  to  make  me 
doubt  or  suspect  that  Ellen  could  ever  change, 
or  that  tlie  common  crosses  of  life  could  ever 
come  between  us  and  our  perfect  happiness. 
It  was  all  a  wild  and  distempered  vision,  and 
that  portion  of  it  has  long  since  gone.  I  have 
waked. 

It  was  necessary  that  I  should  have  passed 
through  all  this,  and  wake  as  I  did,  that  I  might 
know  the  insecurity  of  such  air-built  structures 
as  I  had  erected.  The  mind  makes  its  own 
ideal — the  truth,  the  li\-ing  and  unchanging 
real,  is  around  us,  not  within.  We  should  live 
in  the  present  alone,  if  we  would  be  securely 
happy  ;  I  mean  of  course  in  things  of  the  pres- 
ent hfe.  Thrice  happy  he  who  lives  only  in 
the  hope  of  the  world  beyond. 

Ellen  had  been  absent  only  a  few  weeks, 
when  I  thought  her  letters  grew  colder  ;  but  I 
tried  to  make  myself  believe  that  it  was  only 
caused  by  my  own  imagination,  and  I  replied 
with  all  the  warmth  of  my  full  heart.  But  at 
length  I  received  one,  the  contents  of  which  fell 
upon  my  heart  like  molten  lead.  A  portion  of 
it  and  the  close  read  thus  : — 

" ,  I  have  been  mistaken — do  not  call 

it  fickleness — for  I  feel  now  that  I  do  not  love 
you.  I  know  not  what  it  was — the  feeling  that 
I  had — it  might  have  been  only  respect  and  a 
high  estimation  of  your  character,  that  I  retain 
still,  and  must  ever  retain.  But  let  the  past  be 
forgotten.  Do  not  think  me  heartless  in  thus 
withdrawing  the  vows  I  made.     It  will  be  for 


126 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


your  happiness  and  for  mine.  Yours  I  cannot 
b3.  I  sliould  bs  false  to  my  own  heart,  and 
make  your  life  bitter,  were  I  to  conceal  my  real 
feelings,  and  marry  you,  when  I  feel  that  I  do 
not  love  you  as  you  wish  to  be  loved.  Forget 
me  then,  and  seek  some  more  kindred  heart  to 
make  you  happy." 

My  heart  was  crushed  in  an  instant.  Every 
thought  and  hope  had  for  months  had  but  one 
object  to  cling  around,  and  for  that  one  object  I 
had  been  ready  to  sacrifice  every  prospect  of 
life.  I  could  have  been  willing  with  her  to 
have  lived  in  the  desert — alone  with  her,  and 
left  society  to  linger  on  in  its  cold  forms  and 
heartless  friendships,  while  we,  by  ourselves, 
would  make  a  wilderness  a  paradise.  If  ambi- 
tion witli  its  pride  and  promises  ever  presented 
allurements  to  my  mind,  they  were  only  accept- 
ed and  acted  on  that  I  might  win  laurels  for  her 
to  wear — that  I  might  be  the  more  worthy  of 
her  love.  Is  there  idolatry  in  this  world  now 
equivalent  to  tliat  in  olden  times  ?  Oh !  deny  it 
not,  ye  who,  like  me,  have  knelt  and  worshipped 
at  so  unworthy  an  altar !  But  the  idol  is  bro- 
ken. Henceforth,  what  to  me  was  life — the 
world — the  countless  objects  that  men  struggle 
and  strive  and  coin  their  hearts  for  ?  What 
was  ambition  ? 

In  our  youth  we  build  such  palaces,  to  see 
them  crushed  and  broken  and  ploughed  down  in 
maturer  age.  Then  we  become  wiser,  and  mock 
at  the  very  passions  and  feelings  that  we  yield- 
ed to  and  bowed  down  under  before.  The 
causes  of  one  man's  sorrow  may  appear  light  to 
another.  Such  is  the  constitution  of  our  minds. 
But  none  of  us  suffer  alone.  All  have  their 
own  allotment,  and  bear  it ;  some  in  silence, 
smothering  and  stifling  down  sorrows  under 
which  others  quail  and  cry  out  in  agony,  or 
yield  and  die — die  by  their  own  hand — mean 
and  cowardly  in  spirit,  under  tlie  mask  and  garb 
of  proud  manliness.  "  The  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness ;"  and  that  is  a  silly  egotism 
which  thinks  its  own  grief  the  most  severe. 

I  was  a  young  man  yet,  scarcely  thirty  years 
old  ;  but  now  I  felt  that  my  head  had  grown 
gray  immeasurably  faster  than  the  flight  of 
years,  in  a  single  hour.  I  found  that  years  are 
not  always  the  measure  of  a  man's  life,  but  ex- 
perience and  suffering  and  pain.  Some  are  old 
in  their  very  youth,  and  lie  down,  wayworn  and 
weary,  and  die— die  of  old  age.  The  lifetime 
of  such  is  one  of  epochs,  measured  by  each  new 
access  of  agony,  and  the  consequent  increased 
gnyness  of  heart.    A  single  hour  of  heart- 


rending disappointment  has  made  me  almost 
one  of  these.  I  could  not  work  ;  I  could  not 
study  ;  I  felt  disposed  to  fly  far  and  immediately 
from  the  sight  of  man.  But  Ellen — my  loved, 
but  heartless  Ellen — ^when  after  a  short  time  the 
tliought  of  her  returned,  and  the  hopes  and 
promises  I  had  made  to  myself  of  life  with  her, 
I  partially  recovered  from  my  shock.  I  would 
see  her — I  would  tell  her  that  she  did  not  know 
the  love  she  was  casting  away,  and  the  misera- 
ble wreck  she  was  making.  Perhaps  it  was 
but  a  momentary  thing,  and  by  this  time  she 
had  repented  and  would  return.  I  might  yet  be 
happy.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  I  could 
have  been  thus  deserted,  and  by  her. 

Almost  unconsciously,  I  found  myself  on  the 
road  to  Boston.  I  could  not  travel  fast  enough. 
I  saw  her — saw  her  in  all  her  beauty,  as  she 
was  before  she  left  home — the  same  in  all  but 
her  love.  Now  she  did  not  offer  me  any  hope  ; 
nay,  when  I  urged  my  claim,  and  talked  of  the 
past,  with  a  cold  and  unfeeling  smile  she  turned 
away  and  left  me.  But  I  learned  all  from^a 
faithful  and  sympathizing  friend.  She  had  be- 
come gay,  and  mingled  in  the  circles  of  the 
proud  and  fashionable,  and  such  a  life,  to  her 
unknown  before,  had  weaned  her  away  from 
Nature,  and  the  scenes  and  affections  of  her 
former  home.  She  had  received  attentions  from 
a  man  of  fashion  and  enormous  wealth,  and 
flattery  had  turned  her  young  brain.  O  !  how 
my  heart  told  me  then  that  in  the  coming  days 
she  would  turn  back  in  the  midst  of  folly  and 
neglect,  to  the  scenes  she  had  banished  from  hfer 
mind,  as  she  thought  for  ever,  and  sigh  for  the 
true  heart  she  had  thrust  from  her  and 
crushed. 

«  *    ~  *  :fc  *  * 

Say  that  I  was  an  idiot,  a  fool ;  tell  me  that 
my  manhood  should  have  risen  against  my 
folly,  and  borne  down  the  agony  of  disappoint- 
ment from  a  cause  that  is  coupled,  on  the 
tongue  of  the  illiterate  peasant  and  the  learned 
sage,  witli  ridicule  and  contempt ;  tell  me  all 
that  the  world  has  ever  said  with  a  sneer  about 
love  and  broken  hearts.  But  I  knew  it  all ;  and 
I  write  this  to  prove  my  folly,  and  that  I  was  a 
fool  with  my  eyes  open.  Yet  was  I  broken 
down  with  the  same  burden  that  has  bowed 
down  the  spirits  of  thousands  of  prouder  intel- 
lects than  mine.  I  know  not  why  men  make 
this  passion  the  object  of  their  mirth.  I  know 
not  why  I  myself  have  spoken  in  scorn  of  being 
under  its  influence.  It  is  the  passion  which 
subdues  and  conquers  all  our  grosser  propensi- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 


127 


ties,  and  ennobles  every  attribute  of  the  soul. 
But  it  sliould  ever  be  held  under  the  rule  of 
reason,  or  it  becomes  the  lava  in  the  volcano's 
bosom,  to  burst  forth  in  time  a  torrent  of  un- 
controllable flame,  to  devastate  the  whole  pow- 
ers of  the  man  in  whose  breast  it  reigns. 

I  do  not  claim  to  be  superior  to  other  men  in 
my  power  of  enduring,  and  I  bowed  to  the  very 
dust  under  the  trial.  I  renounced  my  profes- 
sion. Why  should  I  follow  it  longer  ?  I  had 
sufficient  wealth  for  my  own  uses,  and  hence- 
forth I  was  to  be  alone.  1  had  no  one  to  live 
for  but  myself — nothing.  I  am  wniting  now 
the  feelings  I  had  at  that  time ;  and  although 
they  oflen  cause  me  no  little  shame,  they  are 
necessary  in  the  narative,  and  to  prepare  the 
way  for  coming  events.  I  found  aftenvards 
that  man  is  not  so  weak  in  such  cases  as  he 
thinks  he  is — that  the  mind  has  powers  by 
which  it  can  rise  above  such  strokes  as  that 
which  had  fallen  on  me — that  the  wounds 
which  love  makes  in  our  hearts  in  our  early 
uianhood,  are  not  mortal,  and  that,  if  not  cher- 
ished and  kept  open  by  constant  thought  of  the 
one  trouble,  as  if  life  consisted  all  in  one  event, 
and  that  one  past,  it  were  necessary  to  succumb 
and  die,  the  wound  will  become  callous  and 
endurable,  if  it  do  not  heal.  But  this  was  an 
experience  I  was  slow  in  acquiring. 

I  became  a  wanderer.  Desolate  in  heart — 
desiring  no  communion  with  man — suspicious 
alike  of  love  and  friendship — tortured  with  my 
own  thoughts,  and  yet  not  desiring  to  be  free 
from  them,  I  felt  as  if  the  world  and  I  were 
sworn  enemies.  Yet,  doomed  to  live  among 
men,  and  unwilling  to  form  new  attachments 
while  I  felt  that  I  loved  not,  I  sought  relief  in 
change  of  place.  I  roved  for  months  among 
the  sublime  scenes  of  our  own  country.  I 
•ailed  on  her  majestic  rivers  and  the  magnifi- 
cent lakes  of  the  west.  My  mind  became 
filled  with  all  that  was  grand  and  beautiful  in 
nature — filled  to  satiety.  Yet,  mingling  with 
every  scene,  came  the  painful  memory  of  the 
past,  and  I  often  found  myself  thinking  upon 
the  en'oyment  I  should  feel  if  Ellen  were  by 
my  side  to  drink  in  with  me  the  rich  and  varied 
scenery  through  which  I  passed.  Then  I  woke 
from  my  dream,  and  in  the  anguish  of  my  soul 
hurried  on— on,  in  search  of  relief.  At  length 
I  bega'.i  to  feel  less  reluctance  to  join  with  my 
fellow-travellers  in  their  admiration  and  re- 
marks. I  felt  the  need  of  some  communion 
with  others.  I  looked  into  ray  own  heart,  and 
saw  that  I  was  fostering  the  very  pain  from 


which  I  was  seeking  to  flee,  and  then  I  resolved 
to  be  a  man — to  trample  down  and  crush  the 
feelings  that  gnawed  at  my  heart — to  be  no 
longer  the  fool  I  had  been.    Did  I  succeed  ? 

It  needed  another  lesson  to  show  me  how 
weak  I  was,  and  that  lesson  I  was  soon  to  learn. 
With  a  large  company  of  fellow-travellers,  I 
was  returning,  by  the  way  of  the  lakes,  from 
the  distant  west.  We  stopped  at  Niagara, 
where  I  had  often  been  before,  and  each  time 
had  found  new  matters  for  admiration  and 
pleasure.  I  stood  again  there — alone — for  it  is 
no  place  for  the  communion  of  man  with  man, 
where  the  Almighty  speaks  to  the  heart  as  he 
does  in  the  awful  voice  of  the  cataract.  My 
whole  soul  was  filled,  as  it  had  often  been  be- 
fore, with  the  immense  grandeur  of  the  place. 
How  profane  would  have  sounded  to  my  ear 
the  voice  of  mirth  !  Yet  such  a  voice  was 
there  ;  and  as  I  started  at  the  gay  laughter  of 
an  approaching  party,  I  turned,  and  saw,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  proud  and  noble-looking 
man,  Ellen  E 1. 

O !  how  there  rushed  forth  upon  my  heart  all 
the  torturing  throng  of  memories  I  had  just 
began  to  teach  myself  to  forget.  Was  it  in 
vain  that  I  sought  to  avoid  them,  and  must  they 
cling  to  me  for  ever !  Again  was  my  foolish 
heart  bowed  down  in  anguish  and  despair. 

FA.RT  n. 
I  spent  two  years  in  Europe  in  the  hospitals 
and  schools  of  medicine,  and  returned  an  alter- 
ed man.  The  honors  of  my  former  profession 
rose  up  before  my  mind,  and  in  the  city  of  New 
York  I  resolved  to  seek  the  fickle  goddess. 
Fame.  My  spirit  had  recovered  its  tone,  and  I 
felt  myself  a  man  again.  I  hired  a  large  house 
in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  city,  and  furnished 
it  luxuriantly,  for  success  here  depended  no 
little  upon  external  show.  Business  rapidly 
accumulated,  and  my  reputation  rose  rapidly, 
both  among  the  members  of  the  profession  and 
in  society  at  large.  1  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
live  only  for  ambition — to  be  eminent  as  a  phy- 
sician, and  I  looked  forward  to  the  future  as  a 
course  where  I  was  to  find  a  sort  of  negative 
happiness,  only  in  incessant  toil.  I  did  not  seek 
wealth,  for  it  was  already  mine  by  inheritance. 
Still,  my  business  now  became  a  lucrative  one, 
and  I  added  largely  to  my  riches.  I  mingled 
in  society,  because  it  was  necessary  in  order  to 
win  tiie  esteem  of  men,  and  not  because  it  had 
any  charms  for  me.  In  the  active  duties  of  my 
profession  and  in  my  leisure  hours,  in  intense 


128 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


application  to  study  I  found  forgetfulness.  But 
I  was  unhappy. 

I  had  been  one  evening  to  a  brilliant  party, 

given  by  the  fashionable  Mrs.  R 1,  who  at 

5iat  time  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  gay 
world,  and  returning,  was  accompanying  to  her 

house  a  lady,  Mrs.  L y,  who  lived  a  few 

blocks  out  of  my  way,  and  who  had  dismissed 
her  carriage  that  she  might  walk  home.  The 
night  was  very  fine,  and  the  full  moon,  then 
nearly  overhead,  poured  down  a  flood  of  soft 
light  through  the  streets,  rendering  every  object 
distinctly  visible.  We  were  talking  of  tlie 
gayety  of  the  evening  party  as  we  reached  her 
dwelling,  when  we  discovered  upon  the  steps 
one  of  those  miserable  women  who  niglitly  walk 
the  streets — the  victim  of  vice  and  shame.  My 
companion  accosted  her  sharply,  and  would 
have  driven  her  away,  but  she  was  evidently 
unable  to  move,  and  groaned  as  if  in  pain.  I 
spoke'  to  her  kindly,  when  the  lady  laughed  at 
my  sympathy  for  the  "  wretch,"  and  turning 
away  with  a  glance  of  contempt  and  self-ap- 
proving pride,  she  entered  the  house.  O  !  how  I 
despised  her  I — how  in  my  deepest  soul  I  loath- 
ed tlie  creature  who  would  thus  turn  away  her 
heart  from  the  wretchedness  and  suffering  and 
woe  of  a  fellow-mortal,  and  especially  one  of 
her  own  sex ! 

But  it  was  fitting  I  should  be  left  alone  in  this 
errand  of  mercy.  It  was  right  that  none  other 
should  share  with  me  the  horrible  scene  througli 
which  I  then  passed.  Yes — it  was  fortunate 
tliat  tlie  proud  and  inunaculate  wcanan,  who  left 
me  at  die  door,  should  thus  have  left  me,  and 
not  have  been  an  eye-witness  of  the  humiliating 
event  which  there  occurred.  O  1  God,  I  thank 
thee  that  I  alone  was  there  to  do  Uie  errand  of 
tliy  compassion — to  lift  up  from  the  filth  and 
dust  of  her  shame  that  forsaken  and  broken- 
hearted one — that  no  eye  saw  me,  and  no  otlier 
cat  but  her's  heard  those  words  of  kindness  that 
I  spoke  to  her  !  It  was  fitting,!  say  again,  that 
it  should  be  so.  And  I  did  it — in  the  solitude 
and  silence  of  a  midnight  city.  But  I  would 
have  done  the  same  to  her,  if  Uic  broad  and 
bright  glare  of  the  sun  had  been  shining  as  the 
pale  moon  then  shone,  and  the  mid-day  crowds 
had  stopped  to  look  and  laugh  and  point  the 
finger,  and  then  passion — ay,  if  the  whole  living 
world  had  stood  by  to  scorn  me,  I  would  liave 
carried  her  in  my  arms,  as  I  did  that  night,  to 
my  own  home,  and  laid  her  upon  my  own  bed, 
that  when  hIic  awoke  from  her  dream  of  misery, 
her  eye  might  rest  upon  such  objects  as  she 


was  accustomed  to  see  when  a  sinless  child.  It 
was  most  strange  tliat  all  should  have  occurred 
thus,  and  yet  it  ought  not  to  have  been  other- 
wise. 

With  what  inexpressible  agony  and  wretch- 
edness of  mind  did  I  bow  down  that  night,  and 
many  an  after  night  for  years,  through  all  whose 
tedious  and  toilsome  days  and  nights  tlie  mem- 
ory of  that  one  hour  clung  to  me  like  a  curse. 
Tears,  bitter  and  burning  tears,  did  not  quench 
the  flame  ;  and  now,  old  as  I  am,  there  are  times 
when,  alone  and  apart  from  all  men,  I  pace  the 
floor  of  my  own  room  for  hours,  and  my  uncon- 
trollable mind  gathers  to  itself  the  misery  and 
pain  of  that  one  bitter  hour,  and  refuses  to  lie 
comforted. 

When  the  proud  woman,  whose  s(5lf-ap- 
proving  virtue  made  her  turn  away  in  contempt 
from  her  fallen  sister,  had  entered  her  house,  I 
turned  to  the  miserable  object  upon  the  door- 
stone.  She  made  no  reply  when  1  spoke  to  her, 
and  I  took  her  hand  to  try  and  arouse  her.  The 
hand  was  hot  and  dry  and  burning  as  I  held  it 
in  mine.  She  was  evidently  consuming  with 
fever  and  in  great  pain.  I  should  have  said 
that  her  dress  was  squalid  and  filtliy  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  too  scanty  to  protect  her  against  the 
piercing  cold  of  the  night,  and  a  wretched 
hood  covered  her  head  and  face,  which,  as 
she  sat,  was  buried  between  her  knees.  With 
all  the  kindness  of  voice  I  could  use,  I  tried  to 
arouse  her,  and  at  length  she  raised  her  head, 
and  looked  in  my  face  with  a  vacant  stare.  She 
evidently  did  not  comprehend  a  word  I  was  say- 
ing. The  moon  shone  full  upon  her  face,  and 
with  horrible  distinctness,  that  made  my  brain 
giddy  as  I  gazed,  through  all  the  filth  and  an- 
guish and  "enormous  woe"  that  were  traced  in 
deep  lines  upon  every  faded  and  guilt-worn  fea- 
ture, I  recognized  the  countenance  of  my  once 
beautiful  and  too  fondly  loved  Ellen  E 1. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  wretched- 
ness of  my  heart  at  the  discovery.  I  raised 
her  from  tlic  stone — threw  my  cloak  around  her, 
and  with  tlie  strengtli  of  a  giant  I  bore  her 
through  the  streets,  nor  did  I  stop  to  breatlie  till 
I  had  reached  my  own  house,  and  laid  her  upon 
my  own  bed. 

Late  as  it  was,  I  aroused  Mrs.  A.,  my  house- 
keeper, and  bade  her  call  another  servant,  and 
come  to  my  room.  They  were  soon  tlicre,  and 
the  former,  who  is  a  woman  of  rare  qualities 
and  virtues,  entered  at  once  into  my  sympatliies 
with  the  case,  though  entirely  ignorant  of  my 
painful  reasons. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


129 


I  directed  her  to  prepare  the  warm-bath  in 
the  bathing-room,  and  place  the  suffering  girl 
in  it,  and  afterwards  to  furnish  her  from  her 
own  wardrobe  such  clothing  as  was  necessaiy 
for  the  night,  and  place  her  in  my  bed,  while 


one  was  prepared  for  me  in  another  room.  I 
then  retired  to  my  library,  while  my  orders 
were  being  carried  into  effect,  to  enter  in  my 
diaiy  the  following  thoughts  and  history  of 
this  to  me  painful  case. 


PART    III. 


Life!  what  a  mystery  and  problem  is  it! 
What  wonderful  and  unexpected  reverses — 
what  strange  and  deeply  mysterious  changes 
happen  to  us !  Why  is  it  that,  just  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  I  had  shaken  off  the  fetters  of  my 
misery  and  despair,  which  for  four  years  has 
almost  unfitted  me  to  live,  and  was  again  be- 
coming assimilated  to  my  fellows,  and  looking 
up  and  forward  to  the  world  and  the  future — why 
is  it  now  that  this  strange  event  has  occurred  to 
revive  the  almost  forgotten  past,  and  harrow  up 
my  soul  with  forgotten  memories  ?  Why  is  it? 
I  cannot  tell — I  cannot  foresee.  Ellen  was 
mine — mine  in  her  unsullied  purity,  in  her  first 
womanhood — my  pride  and  my  hope.  She  is 
now  mine  again — mine  in  all  her  guilt  and 
shame,  and  wretchedness  and  ruin  ;  my — what? 
Alas !  the  impassable  bar  to  hope  and  love  !  for 
Oh !  how  deeply  I  love  still  the  Ellen  I  loved 
before ;  and  now  she  is  here,  in  my  own  house, 
the  poor,  forsaken,  homeless  and  friendless 
thing,  where  she  might  have  been  the  loved  and 
cherished  mistress.  No;  not  homeless  nor 
friendless ;  for,  fallen  as  she  is,  here  is  her  home, 
and  a  friend  she  shall  never  need  while  I  live. 

Yet  for  what  is  she  here  ?  Why  has  the  lot 
of  her  redemption,  if  she  may  be  saved,  fallen 
upon  me  ?  Is  it  that  my  soul  may  again  be 
crushed,  and  life  become  the  desert  it  has  once 
been  before  ?  Or  is  it  not  rather  to  teach  me, 
what  I  have  been  so  slow  and  unwilling  to 
learn,  to  look  higher  than  earth  for  happiness, 
and  to  feel  that  there  is  more — much  more  to 
live  for,  than  these  selfish  considerations,  which 
have  thus  far  ruled  my  aims  ?  Let  me  then  re- 
ceive the  admonition. 

Oh  !  what  memories — what  crowding  mem- 
ories !  How  they  form  upon  my  brain  !  The 
past— how  fearfully  distinct  are  gathering  about 
me,  at  this  moment,  the  buried  joys  and  hopes 
and  promises  of  years  gone  by,  with  all  the 
vivid  realities  of  their  ruin.  But  they  must  be 
banished.     I  must  not  suffer  myself  to  be  over- 


come by  them  as  I  was  once.  I  know  my 
strength,  and  can  resist.  Back,  then,  all  ye  tor- 
turing remembrances  !  The  present  only  shall 
be  mine,  and  the  future  as  it  comes. 

3  o'clock. — Mrs.  A.  came  to  inform  me  that 
she  had  placed  the  patient  in  bed, and  that  I  could 
now  see  her.  As  I  approached  her  door,  my 
heart  beat  as  it  did  in  former  years,  when  in 
her  innocence  I  visited  her  at  her  father's 
house,  to  talk  of  the  future — alas  !  how  differ- 
ent from  its  reality. 

The  care  of  Mrs.  A.  has  produced  a  great 
change  in  the  personal  appearance  of  Ellen. 
She  looks  more  like  herself,  but  not  the  same — 
oh  !  no,  not  the  same.  She  is  delirious,  and 
talks  incoherently ;  and  her  eye,  restless  and 
wandering,  burns  with  a  wild  and  dazzling 
brightness.  I  was  rejoiced  that  she  did  not 
recognise  me.  And  why  should  she  ?  Changed 
as  she  is,  she  is  not  changed  as  I  am ;  and  were 
her  senses  clear,  and  her  perception  unclouded, 
she  could  scarcely  recognise  me  as  the  one  she 
had  loved  years  ago.  I  knew  before  that  my 
appearance  had  altered  much  ;  but  1  feel  it  more 
now,  as  I  sit  by  her  bedside,  and  my  too  faithful 
memory  paints  the  living  truth  as  I  was — then. 
I  have  tried  to  blot  it  out  heretofore ;  now  I 
cling  to  it,  and  love  it  as  I  did  of  old.  What 
conflicting  thoughts  trouble  me  !  But  if  she 
hve,  the  time  will  come  when  she  will  know 
me,  and  what  will  be  its  effects  upon  her ! 
Anxious  as  I  am  to  know,  I  must  put  off  the 
day  as  far  as  possible. 

Kind  Mrs.  A.  has  urged  me  to  retire  to  rest, 
while  she  watches  by  the  bedside  of  Ellen.  But 
I  cannot  sleep  to  night — I  cannot  leave  her.  I 
have  administered  her  medicines  with  my  own 
hand,  as  I  did  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  It  is 
another  link  to  the  past,  which  I  cannot  for- 
get. 

I  have  communicated  to  Mrs.  A.  the  circum- 
stances in  which  I  found  her,  and  that  I  had 
recognised  her  as  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend. 


130 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


I  cannot  tell  her  all.  That  is  only  for  me  to 
know,  till  Ellen  wakes,  and  knows  it  too — 
knows  it  as  I  feel  she  will,  with  deep  remorse 
and  shame.  I  have  also  charged  Mrs.  A.  not 
to  mention  my  name  in  her  presence. 

Friday  morning. — We  have  spent  the  night 
by  Ellen's  bedside,  listening  to  her  wild  ravings, 
and  striving,  sometimes  even  by  force,  to  pre- 
vent her  doing  injury  to  herself.  Several 
times  when  she  was  quiet,  and  talking,  too,  as  if 
in  sleep,  I  thought  I  distinguished  my  name ; 
and  once  I  thought  the  house-keeper  looked 
at  me  with  an  inquiring  eye  ;  but  it  passed  in- 
stantly away,  and  I  do  not  think  she  noticed 
anything.  I  may  have  been  niistaken  myself.  I 
have  proposed  to  Mrs.  A.  this  morning,  that 
she  should  go  out  after  a  nurse  for  the  sick 
girl,  but  she  insists  upon  doing  all  herself,  in 
addition  to  her  other  duties.  1  am  better  satis- 
fied with  this  arrangement,  because  I  feel  that 
she  will  give  all  those  sympathies  to  the  sick 
girl,  with  which  her  heart  is  so  full,  and  which 
money  cannot  purchase,  and  because  all  curi- 
osity will  thus  be  shut  out.  How  many  of 
these  lost  children  of  vice  might  be  saved,  to  live 
in  honor  and  usefulness  !  or,  if  not  saved  to  live, 
might  at  least  die  with  peace  in  their  hearts 
and  heaven  in  their  eye,  if  there  were  more  such 
women  as  Mrs.  A.  Ye  forget,  ye  indignant 
fair  ones,  who  pride  yourselves  in  your  unspot- 
ted virtue,  and  call  yourselves  Christians,  that 
Jesus  did  not  turn  away  her  who  was  more 
abandoned  than  the  miserable  wretch  ye  spurn 
from  your  door-stone,  but  'spoke  to  her  even 
words  of  pardon  and  hope.  I  thank  God  that, 
wronged  as  I  have  been,  he  has  left  abiding  in 
ray  lieart  that  feeling  for  tliis  girl  which  fills  me, 
lost  and  humbled  as  she  is,  with  this  earnest 
desire  lo  sec  her  again  restored  to  life  and  vir- 
tue. Yet  it  seems  like  hoping  when  there  is 
no  ho\)c.,  to  look  for  her  recovery  under  such 
circumstances.  She  must  have  perished  in  the 
street  last  night  but  for  my  opportune  discovery 
of  her.  Her  disease  is  the  result  of  lior  life  of 
indulgence  ajid  dissipation,  and  is  fearfully  ag- 
gravated by  exposure  and  insufficient  clotliing. 
IIovv  much  she  must  have  suffered  of  late  !  And 
last  night,  perhaps,  she  was  driven  out  by 
human  fiends  from  her  last  miserable  refuge — 
to  die.  My  mind  follows  her  through  all  her 
life  of  shame,  and  I  sliudder.  Why  do  I  not 
loathe  and  Bpum  her  as  others  do — I,  to  whom 
bHo  han  been  the  cause  of  so  much  suffering  ! 
But  I  do  not.  No  mother  ever  rejoiced  over 
the  recovered  child  she  had  lost  with  more  in- 


tense joy  than  I  now  feel,  that  Ellen  is  once 
more  found,  and  that  she  is  here.  God  only 
grant,  if  she  die,  that  her  reason  may  return 
first,  so  that  she  may  look  up  to  Him  in  her  last 
hour. 

Evening. — When  I  had  completed  my  round 
of  morning  calls,  as  hastily  as  possible,  I  returned 
home,  and  dispatched  Mrs.  A.  to  procure  such 
articles  as  Ellen  was  in  need  of.  The  disorder 
still  reigns  in  all  its  intensity,  except  that  the 
dehrium  has  somewhat  abated  in  violence,  and 
is  only  manifested  by  a  low  muttering  which 
she  makes  incessantly.  I  tried  to  catch  tlie 
sound  of  her  words,  but  they  w'ere  so  inarticu- 
late, as  to  render  it  for  some  time  impossible. 
But  I  did  at  length  catch  one  distinctly — one 
that  sent  a  thrill  down  every  nerve,  and  made 
every  pulse  leap  tumultuously.  It  was  my 
own  name.  T  was  not  mistaken  before  when  I 
thought  I  heard  her  call  it.  She  is  living  now 
in  the  scenes  of  days  gone  by,  when  she  was 
innocent  and  pure ;  and  it  is,  pleasant  to  know 
that  even  in  delirium  it  is  so,  and  that  her  visions 
are  unmingled  with  the  sins  of  later  years. 
Oh!  if  they  might  be  blotted  out  from  her 
memory  for  ever,  as  they  seem  to  be  now  ! 

A  singular  incident  has  occurred  in  my  house- 
hold tliis  afternoon.  The  chambermaid,  who 
is  a  pretty  young  girl,  and  withal  somewhat 
vain  of  her  personal  charms,  has  given  me 
notice  through  Mrs.  A.  that  she  must  leave 
me.  She  assigns,  as  the  reason,  that  "  she  is  a 
virtuous  girl,  and  has  always  lived  with  people 
who  respected  themselves ;  and  she  always 
thought  Doctor  M'G.  was  a  better  man  than 
to  take  such  creatures  into  las  house  as  the  one 
he  brought  home  last  night.  There  are  places 
enough  to  send  them  to,  without  bringing  them 
into  the  house  with  decent  women ;  and  she 
can't  stay  where  such  things  are  done." 

There  are  men,  and  women  too,  who  will 
smile  at  the  extreme  scrupulousness  of  this  girl 
in  humble  life,  as  if  such  feelings  were  not  just 
the  thing  in  her  that  they  are  in  the  higher 
walks.  But  it  is  the  morality  of  the  world — 
of  all  classes — of  the  proud  woman  who  last 
night  scornfully  spurned  from  her  door-step  my 
poor  and  erring  Ellen — the  same  proud  and 
contemptible  morality,  aped  by  this  silly  girl, 
whose  very  pride  and  vanity  may  be  the 
cause,  before  a  twelvemonth,  of  her  falling  just 
a.'  low.  It  is  the  outside  morality  that  serves 
to  cover  many  a  vice. 

.  I  have  just  been  in  to  see  her  again. 

She  still  remains  comparatively  quiet,  and  takes 


■Itlt.  DUU'lOK'b  yrOKV. 


131 


her  medicines  without  opposition.  When  I 
came  out,  Mrs.  A.  followed  me  to  the  door,  and 
?aid,  in  a  whisper : 

"  I  think  she  must  have  recognised  you, 
Doctor,  for  she  mentions  your  name  frequently, 
and  often  seems  to  be  talking  with  you,  when 
she  calls  yon  by  your  first  name." 

"  It  may  be  possible"  said  I ;  "  but  yet,  we 
cannot  toll.  At  al!  events,  do  not  mention  it 
before  her ;  for  if  her  reason  should  return,  and 
she  wake  to  find  herself  in  the  house  of  an  old 
friend,  under  such  circumstances,  the  sudden 
discovery  might  bring  on  a  fatal  relapse.  It  is 
more  probable,  however,  that  her  mind  is  wan- 
dering back  to  tlie  time  when  I  used  to  attend 
her  in  her  sickness  at  her  father's  house.  Noth- 
ing, you  know,  Mrs.  A.  would  be  more  likely." 

I  said  this  to  guard  against  any  suspicions 
that  might  arise  in  her  mind  as  to  the  true  state 
of  the  case.  It  may  become  necessary  for  me 
to  tell  her  all ;  but  not  now,  nor  till  it  shall  be 
unavoidable.  If  the  world  knew  the  secret  of 
my  interest  in  Ellen,  they  would  say  that  I  was 
guilty  of  her  ruin,  and  my  kindness  was  the  re- 
sult of  my  remorse.  From  my  house-keeper  I 
do  not  fear  such  suspicions.  Still,  I  would  not 
have  her  know  it,  for  I  feel  a  strange  gratiiica- 
tion  in  having  it  all  to  myself. 

*  :ti  *  *  *  lie  * 

I  pass  over  more  than  a  week,  in  which  I 
find  in  my  diary  only  a  record  of  my  own  feel- 
ings from  day  to  day.  Through  all  tliis  time 
my  patient  continued  much  the  same,  exhibiting 
no  change  for  the  better.  She  was  less  raging 
in  her  delirium,  but  she  did  not  sleep  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  she  seemed  to  be  living  over  tlie 
days  of  her  girlhood  again,  and  often  would 
smile  and  make  some  sudden  exclamation  which 
brought  her  to  my  mind  most  forcibly,  as  slie 
was  when  I  first  knew  her.  I  tried  to  recollect 
how  her  own  chamber  was  furnished  when  I 
saw  her  in  her  sickness  at  home,  and  I  have 
caused  the  room  she  now  occupies  to  be  fur- 
nished, as  near  as  I  can  remember,  in  tlie  same 
way,  even  to  the  most  trifling  articles  ;  so  that 
when  she  comes  to  herself,  she  may  find  every 
thing  aroimd  her  calculated  to  awaken  the  as- 
Bociations  of  the  past,  and  diminish  the  vividness 
with  which  more  recent  scenes  might  crowd 
upon  her  mind.  I  became,  daily,  more  anxious 
to  see  that  crisis  in  her  disease  take  place, 
when,  if  only  for  a  moment  before  she  sank  in 
death,  her  dethroned  reason  would  be  restored, 
and  she  would  perhaps  recognise  the  tokens  of 
her  early  life — perhaps,  remember  me. 


Sunday  evenivg. — This  morning,  seeing  no 
indications  of  improvement  in  my  patient,  I 

called  upon  Drs.  M and  S s,  men  of 

high  standing  in  the  profession,  and  who  have 
shown  me  many  acts  of  regard  since  I  have 
been  in  the  city,  both  of  whom  I  have  frequently 
met  at  the  bed  of  the  sick,  and  requested  them 
to  call  at  my  residence,  and  give  me  the  aid  of 
their  skill  in  the  treatment  of  a  sick  girl.  They 
were  at  the  house  precisely  at  ten  o'clock.  I 
gave  them  a  full  history  of  the  case,  from  tlie 
hour  in  which  she  was  brought  home,  and  then 
introduced  them  to  the  sick  room.  I  felt  a 
momentary  relief— an  increased  hope,  as  I 
closed  the  door  upon  them,  and  retired  to  the 
parlor  to  wait  for  the  result  of  their  delibera- 
tions. This  was  soon  known,  and  they  pro- 
nounced the  case  almost  hopeless — coincided 
with  me  entirely  in  my  treatment,  and  advised 
a  perseverance  in  it.  Dr.  M left  imme- 
diately.    S s  remained  a  few  moments,  and 

when  he  heard  the  sound  of  M 's  carriage 

departing,  he  seated  himself  in  front  of  me,  and 
said: 

"  M'G ,  you  are  more  interested  in  the 

event  of  this  girl's  sickness  than  you  wish  to 
have  us  know." 

I  knew  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  pry  into 
anotlier's  secret  thoughts  merely  from  curiosity, 
and  I  answered  him  candidly,  that  I  felt  a  very 
deep  interest  in  it. 
"  And  who  is  she  ?"  he  inquired. 
"  The  daughter  of  an  old  acquaintance,"  I 
replied,  with  as  much  calmness  as  I  could  as- 
sume. 

"  But  the  name,  my  dear  sir ;  will  you  not 
tell  me  the  name  ?" 

"  His  name  was  E 1,  a  resident  of  the 

place  where  I  first  commenced  practice." 

"  My  suspicions  told  me  as  much,"  he  re- 
plied, as  he  rose,  and  with  a  face  indicative  of 
deep  feeling,  walked  across  the  room. 

I  was  surprised,  less  at  his  manner  than  at 
his  words.  But  he  did  not  give  me  time  to  ask 
him  if  he  knew  liim,  before  he  continued  : 

"  You  must  suffer  me  henceforth  to  share 
with  you  in  the  anxiety  and  care  of  your  pa- 
tient. I  feel  a  strong  interest  in  her.  Her 
mother  was  my  sister,  separated  from  her  fam- 
ily by  circumstances  which  I  cannot  now  re- 
late ;  and  for  her  child  I  should,  at  least,  feel 
some  of  the  affection  which  was  unfortunately 
estranged  from  the  mother.  I  know  the  whole 
history  of  your  connection  with  her,  and  I  re- 
joice to  find  her  here." 


i32 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


While  we  were  discussing  her  condition, 
and  devising  the  best  course  to  be  followed  in 
the  treaUnent  of  her  disease,  Mrs.  A.  came  in 
to  announce  that  a  change  had  taken  place  in 
the  appearance  of  her  charge.  We  hastened 
to  her  bedside,  and  were  surjmsed  to  find  her 
sunk  into  a  quiet  sleep,  while  a  gentle  moisture 
was  perceptible  on  her  forehead.  I  felt  of  her 
pulse,  and  found  that  the  fever  had  left  her : 
iier  iiand  was  soft  and  moist.  We  looked  at 
one  another  with  mutual  congratulation,  and, 
with  silent  footsteps,  left  the  apartment.     My 

heart  was  full,  and  S s  saw  it,  and  said,  as 

he  pressed  my  hand  at  parting : 

"  You  know  she  must  be  kept  perfectly  quiet 
now — no  emotion — let  the  nurse  attend  her  till 
I  come  again.     I  will  be  here  at  three  o'clock." 

The  hour  came,  and  with  it  my  friend  and 
counsellor.  In  the  mean  time  no  change  had 
taken  place.  She  still  slept  as  peacefully  as  an  • 
infant,  only  now  and  then  a  shade,  as  if  the 
token  of  some  painful  dream,  would  cross  her 
face.  We  sat  by  her  bedside  more  than  two 
hours,  watching  anxiously  and  somewhat  fear- 
fully for  her  to  awake.  The  last  rays  of  the 
sun  lingered  in  the  room  as  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  looked  around  on  those  who  stood  by 
her.  They  were  all  strangers — even  me  ehe 
did  not  recognise,  though  her  eye  often  turned 
to  my  face  with  an  appearance  as  if  endeavor- 
ing to  rgcall  something  to  her  memoiy.  She 
opened  her  lips,  as  if  to  speak ;  but  my  friend 
enjoined  silence  upon  her. 

"  You  are  among  your  friends,"  said  he, 
"  and  you  will  be  well  and  anxiously  cared  for ; 
but  you  must  not  speak  till  you  are  stronger. 
Be  satif-ficd  that  everjlhing  will  be  done  for 
you,  and  trust  us." 

What  was  left  undone  by  her  former  life  has 
been  effectually  done  by  her  sickness ;  and  she 
is  now  not  even  a  shadow  of  her  former  self. 
I  could  not  have  known  her,  if  I  had  not  seen 
her  till  this  time  ;  she  is  so  faded  and  wasted 
away  by  fever.  Oh  !  that  the  guilt  and  shame 
of  past  years  could  be  lost  for  ever,  and  its  con- 
Hequences  to  her  and  to  me ! 

Monday  morning. — Ellen  is  considerably 
revived  this  morning.     I  did  not  dare  to  see 

her  before  the  arrival  of  Doctor  S s.     We 

entered  the  room  together.  Mrs.  A.  had  spent 
the  night  with  her,  and  had  strictly  enforced 
the  BJlcnce  iinponed,  so  that  she  was  yet  ignor- 
ant an  to  the  friends  she  wa.s  with.    As  S s 

approached  her,  and  tenderly  inquired  how  she 
WM,  »ho  inquired,  in  a  feeble  voice  : 


"  Where  am  I,  Doctor  ?  What  new  friends 
have  taken  up  such  a  wretch  as  1  ?  This  is  too 
much." 

S s  again  assured  her  she  was  among 

those  who  would  take  good  care  of  her,  but  she 
must  be  content  to  wait  till  she  had  recovered 
more  strength  before  she  learned  more.  Mrs. 
A.  is  worn  out  with  watching  and  anxiety,  and 
a  now  nurse  has  been  obtained  to  assist  her. 
God  grant  that  our  hopes  may  not  be  crushed 
again  ! 

Evening. — A  new  incident  has  occurred  to- 
day, in  connection  with  this  case.    I  was  called 

in  great  haste,  about  noon,  to  see  Mrs.  L y, 

the  lady  at  whose  door  I  had  found  Ellen  on 
that  memorable  night.  W^hen  I  reached  the 
house,  her  husband  was  walking  in  the  parlor, 
apparently  in  great  agitation,  and  could  not,  or 
would  not,  answer  my  questions  as  to  the 
illness  of  his  wife.  On  being  shown  to  her 
room,  I  found  her  laboring  under  a  violent  hys- 
teric convulsion,  through  a  constant  succession 
of  which,  the  nurse  informed  me,  she  had  been 
passing  all  the  morning ;  but  her  husband 
would  not  suffer  tliem  to  summon  any  aid  till 
then.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  in  all  I 
saw ;  but,  without  waiting  to  satisfy  my  curios- 
ity, I  attended  to  my  patient,  and  left  the  house. 

I  had  hardly  done  so  before  the  mystery  was 
solved.  It  was  in  the  mouth  of  every  acquaint- 
ance I  met.  The  lady  had  been  detected,  this 
morning,  in  a  long  course  of  intrigue,  in  which 
her  name  was  coupled  with  some  of  the  most 
respectable  men  in  tlie  city.  This  afternoon  it 
is  in  the  papers — without  her  name,  of  course ; 
but  the  thing  is  so  well  known,  tliat  any  one 
can  supply  the  omission.  How  irresistibly  my 
mind  is  carried  back  to  the  night  on  which  she 
spurned  from  her  door  an  object  more  to  be 
pitied  than  herself !  How  is  her  pride  humbled 
now !  how  deeper  her  degradation,  falling,  as 
she  does,  from  the  height  on  which  she  has 
stood,  with  the  world  looking  on  to  jeer  at  her 
shame,  and  to  be  scorned  and  despised  as  she 
scorned  and  despised  Ellen !  And  is  such, 
indeed,  the  world's  morality  ?  Is  virtue  cover- 
ed under  a  vail  so  thin  and  so  easily  blown 
aside  ?  God  forbid  that  I  should  believe  it !  1 
know  there  is  true  virtue  and  truth  in  woman 
— that  the  hearts  that  loved  us  and  tended  us 
through  all  the  helpless  years  of  childhood,  and 
bore  witii  us  in  all  our  waywardness — that  the 
gentle  and  kind  sisters  who  grew  up  by  our 
side,  and  made  us,  by  their  holier  Impulses,  the 
better  men  that  wo  became  in  after  years — I 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


133 


know  that  they  are  true  and  good,  and  the 
memory  of  their  early  love  and  their  later  truth 
clings  to  us  in  our  maturer  years ;  and,  abiding 
ever  in  our  hearts,  blots  out  the  unholy  sus- 
picions tliat  would  creep  into  our  minds,  and 
poison  our  thoughts,  when  the  proud  and  unre- 
strained passions  of  others  give  them  over  to 
guilt  and  shame.  We  are  all  bad  enough  to 
feel  some  pity,  at  least,  for  the  errors  of  others. 

When  I  returned  from  my  visit  to  Mrs.  L y, 

I  found  Doctor  S s  waiting  for  me.     He 

smiled  as  I  entered,  arid  his  words  startled  me 
at  first.  By  a  singular  oversight,  I  had  neg- 
lected to  tell  the  new  nurse  that  Ellen  must  be 
kept  ignorant  as  to  whose  house  she  was  in  ; 
and  she  had  discovered  the  truth,  and  now  was 
in  extreme  agitation,  insisting  upon  seeing  me 

immediately.     S s  had  informed  her  that  I 

was  absent,  but  that  I  would  see  her  as  soon 
as  I  returned.  I  dreaded  the  inter\'iew ;  for, 
with  all  my  anxiety  for  her  recovery,  I  had 
formed  no  definite  views  as  to  the  future,  nor 
what  my  feelings  would  be  when  she  should 
see  me  and  know  me  again.  But,  cominced 
that  now  the  discovery  had  been  made,  her  agi- 
tation, in  anticipation  of  a  meeting,  would  do 
her  more  injury  than  the  feelings  produced  by 
the  meeting  itself,  I  did  not  hesitate. 

The  nurse  left  the  room  as  I  entered  it.  We 
were  alone  together  again ;  but,  Oh !  how  dif- 
ferent our  meeting  now  from  what  it  had  been 
years  before !  I  stood  by  her  bedside,  and 
looked  at  her  pale  and  sunken  face,  while,  with 
hands  clasped  and  extended,  she  gazed  at  me 
with  tearful  eyes,  as  if  to  find,  in  the  altered 
man  who  stood  by  her,  something  to  remind  her 
of  what  I  had  once  been.  For  a  little  while, 
neither  uttered  a  word.  At  length,  with  all 
the  calmness  I  could  assume,  I  pronounced  her 
name  : 

"  Ellen,  I  am  here." 

"  Oh,  Charles !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  voice 
of  indescribable  anguish ;  "  Charles,  this  is 
you  then  ?"  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  it  is  I.     But  you  must  be  calm. 

Compose  yourself,  and " 

"  No,  no ;  I  must  speak  now,  if  it  causes  my 
death.  I  am  in  your  house,  and  you  do  not 
curse  me." 

"  Curse  you  ?     Oh,  no,  no ;  never  could  I 
curse  her  who  has  been  for  years  in  my  mem- 
ory— ^the  vision  of  a  day  of  happiness,  though 
long  since  wrecked  and  gone." 
"  Yes,  wrecked  by  me,  who  deserve  all  your 


hate  and  contempt,  instead  of  this  kindness.  I 
cannot  bear  this.  This  is  no  place  for  me.  I 
pollute  your  house  while  I  stay.  You  do  not 
know  the  WTetch  you  have  saved  from  death. 
Better  had  you  left  me  to  die  in  my  misery  and 
shame,  ignorant  of  each  other,  than  to  bring 
me  back  to  life,  to  feel  how  lost  I  am,  and  how 
very  \\Tetched  I  have  made  you.  But  I  must 
tell  you  all  while  1  have  strength " 

"  No,  Ellen,"  I  interrupted  her,  "  you  need 
tell  me  nothing.  I  have  guessed  all,  since  you 
have  been  here ;  and  all  I  ask  now  is,  that  you 
will  be  calm  till  you  are  better,  and  then  we 
can  talk  of  it." 

"  I  caimot  be  calm  while  I  feel  how  I  have 
wronged  you,  and  your  undesened  return. 
And  can  it  be  that,  after  all  I  did,  you  have  not 
forgotten  me,  and  do  not  hate  me  ?" 

It  was  only  by  the  utmost  self-control,  that  I 
could  subdue  my  feelings,  and,  for  a  moment,  I 
could  not  reply. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  so,"  she  continued.  "  It  could 
not  be  otherwi.se.  You  do  despise  and  hate 
me." 

I  could  restrain  myself  no  longer.  That 
look  and  tone  of  utter  heart-abandonment  and 
despair  went  to  my  soul.  I  told  her  the  whole 
history  of  my  life  since  she  deserted  me — how, 
for  years,  I  had  been  a  homeless  wanderer, 
without  object  or  aim  in  life ;  and  yet,  how, 
through  all  the  darkness  and  despair  of  those 
years,  our  love  had  been  the  only  dream  of  my 
memory,  and  formed  the  one  bright  spot  in  the 
past,  to  which  I  could  turn  and  be  refreshed — 
how  it  was  my  dream  yet,  that  would  not  de- 
part. I  told  her  how  I  had  first  found  her,  an 
outcast  and  downtrodden  one,  and  how  I  knew 
her  and  rescued  her ;  but  I  did  not  tell  her' how 
that  same  love  of  former  times  burned  in  my 
heart  yet,  though  hopeless,  as  if  buried  in  the 
deep  grave.  That  she  saw  and  knew,  and  felt 
it  in  her  heart  of  hearts ;  for  now  was  come  to 
her  the  hour  of  penitence  and  remorse  and 
deep  humiliation,  and  she  loathed  herself. 

The  scene  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she 
fainted.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  was  answered  by 
Doctor  S  3,  who,  apprehensive  of  the  result 
of  our  interview,  had  not  left  the  house.  By 
the  aid  of  powerful  restoratives,  she  was 
revived,  and  left  in  the  care  of  the  nurse,  with 
directions  not  to  suffer  any  conversation,  nor 
any  thing  to  agitate  the  patient.  An  hour 
afterward,  I  called  at  the  door,  and  she  had 
just  sunk  into  a  quiet  sleep. 


134 


THE    POET'S    HEART. 


Let  me  relate  the  sequel,  as  I  remember  it 
now,  after  many  years  of  my  solitary  life.  On 
tlie  day  following  my  last  date,  I  had  another 
interview  with  Ellen,  in  the  presence  of  my 

friend  S s,  whom  I  had  made  known  to  her 

us  her  relation.  Filled  with  deep  humiliation 
and  shame  for  the  past,  and  hearty  gratitude  for 
our  care,  she  told  us  the  history  of  her  life, 
since  she  became  lost  to  me.  It  was  one  of 
foul  treachery  and  desertion,  on  the  part  of  the 
man  whose  wiles  had  deceived  her  young  and 
inexperienced  heart,  till  she  woke  to  find  her- 
self forsaken  and  cast  off  by  liim.  She  then 
learned,  from  her  own  bitter  experience,  how 
she  liad  forfeited  a  love  that  would  have  glo- 
ried in  her,  for  the  shame  she  now  felt.  She 
turned  again  to  the  memory  of  her  first  love, 
and  then  found  how  she  had  deceived  herself, 
when  she  told  me  that  she  had  never  loved  me. 
She  did ;  but  she  felt  now  that  there  was  no 
hope ;  that  I  would  despise  and  spurn  her,  if 
she  came  to  me  ;  yet  she  did  write  to  me,  and 
confessed  all  she  suffered  and  deserved  to 
snffer.  That  letter  I  never  received.  Hope- 
less and  in  despair,  she  had  then  plunged  deeper 
in  shame  and  sin,  till  she  became  what  I  found 
her.  With  what  tears  of  penitence  did  she  tell 
her  btory,  and  mingle  her  self-contempt  with 
her  gratitude  to  us  ! 

She  continued  slowly  to  recover,  after  this ; 
and,  as  she  was  able,  Mrs.  A.  directed  her 
mind  to  the  hopes  of  religion,  and  pointed  her 
to  those  holy  and  pure  principles  of  life,  which 
are  found  only  in  the  Bible,  and  which,  faith- 
fully received,  cheer  and  elevate  and  purify  the 
soul.  Under  this  influence,  the  darkness  of 
was    removed    from    her  mind,  and, 


though  she  stil!  fel*.  herself  to  be  an  outcast  on 
earth,  yet  she  learned  to  hope  for  the  world  be- 
yond. As  soon  as  she  was  able,  she  was  re- 
moved   to  the    house  of   her  uncle,  Dcclor 

S s,  where   she  was    received  with    the 

greatest  kindness  by  his  family.  Here,  too,  I 
often  saw  her— often  talked  with  her,  for  hours, 
of  the  past,  which  we  learned  to  look  upon  with 
a  calm  regret.  Yet  how  often  did  I  return  to 
my  solitary  chamber,  to  pass  sleepless  nights  in 
tears  and  agony  on  my  desolation !  Was  I 
weak  and  foolish  ?  Be  it  so.  Yet  such  I  was  ; 
clinging,  with  all  my  heart,  to  the  one  affectioji. 
blighted  and  ruined  as  it  was. 

Spring  opened  ;  and,  when  the  green  leaves 
first  began  to  burst  out  from  their  young  buds, 
and  Nature  to  put  on  her.  smiles,  Ellen  wished 
to  go  into  the  country.  It  was  another  indica- 
tion of  a  return  of  her  heart  to  its  former  purity. 
A  pleasant  spot  on  the  bank  of  the  Hudson 
was  chosen,  and  there  she  went.  It  became 
her  home,  and  in  that  peaceful  retreat  she  lived 
for  years,  making  an  occasional  visit  to  her 
friends  in  the  city.  But,  once  in  every  month, 
I  went  to  see  her,  and  continued  to  do  so  till 
last  year.  With  the  fall  of  the  leaves  she  died 
— died  peacefully.  I  was  with  her  through  tlie 
short  illness  which  terminated  her  hfe,  and  I 
closed  her  eyes  for  her  last  long  sleep,  and  saw 
her  laid  in  the  village  church-yard. 

My  story  is  done.  Through  all  these  years 
have  I  walked  in  this  lonely  dream.  Bound  to 
a  dear  ideal,  from  which  it  has  been  impossible 
to  separate  myself,  yet  happy  in  tliis,  that,  lost 
as  Ellen  was,  and  miserable  as  my  life  has 
been,  it  was  my  lot  to  restore  her  to  virtue,  and 
to  see  her  die  in  peace. 


771 
J. 


H!   IP(DIilf^S   ElEAiaf 


Abk  never  for  the  poet's  lot, 

Ask  never  for  liid  heart. 
Unless,  bereft  of  sympathy, 

Thou'dst  walk  tlie  earth  apart. 

Among  tlie  woods,  beside  the  streams, 

In  bliss  he  thinks  aloud  ; 
But  wearily,  oh  wearily 

He  sitH  among  the  crowd. 

The  look  of  scorn,  the  look  of  pride, 
That  other  men  heed  not, 


Falls  on  the  poet's  heart  a  blow 
For  ever  un forgot. 

Alone  among  the  loving  birds. 
Beneath  the  ancient  tree. 

Among  the  dumb,  delicious  flowers, 
A  blessed  man  is  he. 

But  in  the  jostle  of  the  crowd, 

In  pain  he  stands  apart ; 
If  thou  must  live  on  sympathy, 

Ask  not  the  poet's  heart. 


CONVERSION    OF    ST.    PAUL. 


135 


(B(DKr¥]gmSI[(DH   ©IP  Sf,  IPAWHi, 


The  evening  twilight  was  fast  melting  into 
darkness.  "  Pharphar,  the  golden  stream,"  the 
river  of  Damascus,  which  had  glowed  as  it  re- 
flected the  crimson  sky  from  which  the  sun 
had  lately  disappeared,  now  presented  to  the 
eye  only  the  cold  leaden  hue  which  night  gives 
to  its  clear  blue  waters.  Even  the  rich  foliage 
of  the  beautiful  forest  trees,  which  bordered 
the  long  wide  street,  called  Straight,  seemed  to 
have  lost  its  freshness  ;  and  the  low  moaning 
caused  by  the  wind  as  it  swept  through  their 
boughs,  had  nothing  of  hope  in  its  sad  voice. 
The  streets  of  Damascus  were  by  no  means 
deserted.  Men  were  hurrj'ing  to  and  fro ; 
women,  whose  faces  were  carefully  shaded  by 
the  long  vails  which  they  wore,  swept  tlie 
ground  with  their  garments  ;  and  youth  of  va- 
rious sizes  passed  gayly  along,  talking,  as  they 
walked,  of  the  exciting  news  which  they  had 
lately  learned.  Yet  it  was  evident,  even  to  a 
stranger,  that  all  were  not  elated  by  the  com- 
munication which  had  excited  such  general  in- 
terest. Bold  men  appeared  very  sad  ;  and  one 
covered  his  face  with  the  comer  of  his  robe. 
Women  wept,  as  they  passed  silently  along ; 
and  young  children  cried  aloud  from  sympa- 
thy, though  they  knew  not  the  cause  of  their 
distress. 

A  stranger,  who  had  entered  Damascus  at 
midday,  had  brought  the  intelligence  that  three 
horsemen  were  approaching  the  city,  of  one  of 
whom  fame  had  spoken  loudly.    Learned  in  all 
the  wisdom  of  the  Jewish  doctors,  full  of  cour- 
-  age  and  zeal,  he  stood  forth  to  the  whole  na- 
tion as  the  defender  of  the  religion  of  his 
fathers,  the  avenger  of  the  ancient  faith,  and 
the  cruel  persecutor  of  all  who  had  forsaken  it. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  object  in 
visiting  Damascus ;  for  the  stranger  had  said 
that  he  was  armed  with  authority,  from  the 
priests,  to  seize  both  men  and  women,  and 
commit  them  to  prison.     Nor  was  it  certain 
that  he  would  stop  at  this;   for  it  was  well 
known  that  he  had  lately  assisted  in  stoning  to 
death  a  youth  who  had  boldly  declared  to  his 


fellow-countrymen  that  Jesus  was  their  Mes- 
siah. 

Morning  came  ;  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen ; 
and  the  mists  of  night  still  lay  heavily  on  hill 
and  river.  All  was  silent  in  Damascus,  as  if 
life  had  become  extinct ;  not  a  footstep  was 
heard  treading  that  deserted  street,  which  had 
only  a  few  hours  before  been  so  thronged. 
The  reveller  in  his  brother's  misery,  the 
thoughtless  youth,  who,  without  malice,  was 
yet  willing  to  see  others  suffer,  because  he 
loved  excitement,  and  the  cruel  bigot  still  slum- 
bered. 

The  Christian  wept  before  his  God  in  his 
secluded  chamber,  and  strove  to  pray,  tliough 
prayer  rose  from  a  heart  bowed  in  hopeless 
agony.  So  certain  seemed  his  fate  tliat  faith 
could  find  nothing  to  lay  hold  upon,  and  the 
most  trusting  pra}'ed  only  for  strengtli  to  die 
— for  grace  to  leave  his  fatherless  children  to 
God. 

But  who  are  these,  walking  so  slowly  and 
carefully,  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  along  the 
still  deserted  street  ?  Their  garments  are  soiled 
with  dust,  and  they  have  the  seeming  of  wea- 
ried travellers :  one  is  evidently  blind,  for  his 
companions  are  leading  him.  Can  this  be  the 
bold  man,  whose  coming  has  been  regarded 
with  so  much  dread  ?  What  power  hath 
transformed  this  man  of  blood  into  a  httle 
child  ;  for  his  mien  no  longer  expresses  pride, 
and  his  eagle  eye  is  dimmed  ?  What  hatli  so 
changed  him  ?  It  is  the  touch  of  the  Almighty, 
that  hath  transformed  the  lion  into  a  lamb.  As 
the  sun  burst  in  splendor  on  the  gladdened 
earth,  the  Christians  of  Damascus  had  gazed  on 
him  as  upon  a  friend  whom  they  might  see  no 
more.  But  when  that  familiar  friend  had,  like 
a  giant,  run  his  race,  and  sunk  again  beneath 
the  waters,  their  remorseless  enemy  had  not 
yet  appeared. 

Strange  rumors  were  afloat :  some  said  that 
he  had  come  within  the  city  gates ;  others  that 
he  had  fallen  sick  upon  the  road,  and  others  still 
declared  that  he  had  only  lingered  to  make  bis 


136 


CONVERSION"    OF    ST.    PAUL. 


cruel  work  more  eure,  while  others  averred 
that  the  a.xe  was  held  suspended  only  that  the 
blow  might  prove  more  fatal.  Thus  passed 
three  days,  and  yet  the  truth  could  not  be 
fully  learned.  Christians  felt  that  God  had 
protected  them,  but  yet  they  had  not  gained 
the  power  to  pray  with  faith.  Hope  glim- 
mered in  the  breasts  of  some,  fear  prepon- 
derated in  tlie  hearts  of  others,  and  all  still 
dreaded  their  terrible  enemy.  They  had  not 
many  days  before  received  letters  from  the 
bretliren  in  Jerusalem,  giving  them  an  account 
of  the  awful,  yet  glorious  death  of  the  martyr 
Stephen,  while  it  painted  in  glowing  colors  the 
malice  of  their  cruel  persecutor  Saul. 

Damascus,  though  regarded  at  this  time  with 
little  favor  by  the  emperors  of  Rome,  still  re- 
tained its  ancient  beauty.  Its  golden  river 
Pharphar,  watered  the  great  plain,  known  for 
many  centuries  as  the  "  orchard  of  Damascus," 
and  rolled  as  proudly  towards  the  sea,  as  when 
a  Syrian  monarch  swayed  his  sceptre  over  the 
greatest  kingdom  of  the  world.  The  haughty 
Assyrian,  and  the  no  less  haughty  Jew,  lived 
in  peace  together,  held  in  subjection  by  a 
mightier  power,  for  they  were  now  the  meek 
vassals  of  Rome.  The  fires  of  jealousy  which 
had  so  long  burned  in  the  heart  of  each,  had 
been  quenched  in  a  sea  of  blood.  The  lofty 
fane  of  Diana*  stood  with  its  ever -open  door,  to 
invite  the  passing  stranger  to  step  aside  and 
worship,  while  by  its  side  rose  the  modest  house 
of  prayer,  sacred  to  Jehovah.  All  were  tolerated 
by  the  liberal  indifference  of  their  masters. 

But  what  hatli  drawn  these  crowds  to  tlie 
synagogue  ?    Strange  tidings  have  reached  the 
ears  of  those  who  frequent  that  holy  place.  Saul 
the  persecutor  entered  the  house  of  prayer  be- 
fore the  day  had  dawned,  and  in  tones  of  elo-   : 
quence,  such  as  hath  seldom  sounded  in  mortal   i 
ear,  is  proving  that  Jesus  is  their  long-expected   i 
king.  I 

O,  how  these  tidings  have  melted  the  hearts  ' 
of  those  faithless  Christians,  those  who  had  not   i 

♦Heathen  temples  were  usually  left  open  during  ' 
the  whole  day,  that  strangers  might  enter,  or  bow  ; 
to  the  god  as  they  paued. 


strength  enough  to  pray  for  deliverance,  and 
whose  tongues  faltered  at  the  thought  of  ask- 
ing for  the  conversion  of  their  dreaded  persecu- 
tor !  God,  who  hath  ever  granted  larger  favors 
to  his  fainting  Church  than  she  hath  dared  to 
ask,  has  turned  their  pitiless  enemy  into  an 
apostle  of  truth.  He  who  had  come  to  Damas- 
cus with  authority  to  apprehend  all  who  were 
called  by  this  name,  has  listened  meekly  to  him 
who  was  sent  to  tell  how  great  things  he  must 
suffer  for  the  sake  of  Christ.  The  Christians 
who  have  entered  that  house  of  prayer,  while 
they  drink  in  the  glorious  truths  which  are  fall- 
ing from  his  lips,  almost  fear  to  raise  their  eyes, 
and  look  upon  the  murderer  of  Stephen.  While 
the  Jews,  who  had  ran  thither  to  behold  the  man 
of  blood,  were  confounded  when  they  listened 
to  his  words,  and  heard  him  proving  that  this  is 
the  very  Christ.  So  appalled  were  the  Jews 
to  hear,  from  the  lips  of  him  who  destroyed 
those  which  called  on  this  name  in  Jerusalem, 
the  wonderful  narration  of  what  had  befallen 
him,  that  many  have  been  persuaded  that  Jesus 
is  the  Christ,  and  of  the  others  for  many  days 
not  a  dag  durst  lift  his  tongue. 

At  length  their  minds  became  familiarized  to 
the  strange  history ;  they  had  heard  how  Jesus 
had  appeared  to  him  in  the  way,  and  put  to 
him  the  thrilling  question  :  "  Why  persecutest 
tliou  me  ?"  They  had  seen  that  he  who  perse- 
cuted in  times  past,  now  preached  the  faith 
which  he  once  destroyed  ;  but  they  were  no 
longer  affected  by  it,  for  the  most  awful  mani- 
festations of  grace  or  terror,  are  soon  effaced 
from  the  unregenerate  heart.  Paul  had  proved 
tliat  Jesus  was  the  very  Christ,  and  those  who 
could  not  reply  to  his  arguments,  were  wearied 
with  listening  to  his  appeals.  The  Jews  took 
counsel  to  kill  him.  They  wutched  day  and 
night  at  those  gates,  which  had  opened  so 
readily  to  admit  the  persecutor,  that  they  might 
cut  short  the  course  of  this  bold  defender  of 
the  faith,  even  as  he  had  that  of  tlie  martyr 
Stephen.  But  those  who  had  once  feared  to 
look  upon  him,  now  strove  to  protect  him. 


ENGLISH  CITIES. 


137 


irf(iILI[gIEI   (BH^IEIIS 


BY    J.    T.    HEADLEY, 


It  is  only  eigliteen  miles  from  Coventry  to 
Birmingham,  and  by  the  great  London  and  Liver- 
pool railway  the  distance  is  made  in  forty  min- 
utes. So,  just  at  evening,  myself  and  friend 
jumped  in  the  cars,  and  soon  found  ourselves 
amid  the  tall  chimnies  of  this  great  manufactur- 
ing city  of  England.  It  is  useless  to  repeat  the  ; 
story  of  factory  life,  or  describe  over  again  for  ; 
the  fortieth  time,the  sickly  children  and  girls  who 
spend  their  days  (few  enough)  at  the  looms  and 
in  the  unhealthy  apartments  of  those  immense 
cotton-mills.  Money  is  coined  out  of  human 
life ;  and  degradation,  and  want,  and  misery  are 
the  price  this  great  kingdom  pays  for  its  huge 
manufacturing  cities. 

But  one  thing  in  my  hotel  struck  me  espe- 
cially.    It  is  well  known,  notwithstanding  the 
complaints  of  English  travellers  of  our  love  of 
money,  that  next  to  Italy,  England  is  the  most 
dishonest  countjy  in  the  world  to  travel  in.   The 
hackman  cheats  you, — the  landlord  cheats  you* 
and  the  servants  cheat  you.     You  are  fleeced 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  kingdom.     Such 
outraores  as  you  are   compelled  to  submit  to 
would  not  be  tolerated  for  a  moment  in  the  Uni- 
ted States.     You  are  not  only  charged  enor- 
mously for  your  board,  but  are   compelled  to 
make  up  the  servants'  wages — each  man  pay- 
ing^such  a  sum  that  servants  give  the  landlord 
a  large  price  for  their  places,  demanding  nothing 
for  their  labor.     In  travelling,  you  not  only  pay 
your  fare,  but  every  time  tlie  horses  are  chang- 
ed, or  once  in  fifteen  or  twenty  miles,  are  ex- 
pected to  give  the  driver  an  English  shilling,  or 
about  twenty-five  cents  our  money.     But  this 
landlord  of  Binriingham  was  none  of  your  swin- 
dlers— he    scorned    to    fleece  travellers — and 
would  have  no  one  in  his  house  who  practised  it. 
So  he  had  regulations  printed  and  neatly  framed 
hung  up  in  the  apartments,  on  purpose,  it  was 
stated,  to  prevent  those  who  stopped  at  his  house 
from  being  imposed  upon.     Servants  were  not 
allowed  to  demand  any  thing,  and  it  was  contra- 
ry to  the  rules  of  the  house  to  charge  more  than 


four  shillings  (a  dollar)  for  a  bed,  the  same  for 
dinner  and  breakfast ;  or,  in  other  words,  it  was 
not  permitted  to  ask  more  than  about  four  dol- 
lars a  day  from  any  person,  unless  he  had  ex- 
tras. I  could  not  but  exclaim,  as  I  turned  to- 
wards my  bed — "  Honest  man  !  how  grateful 
travellers  must  feel  for  tlie  interest  you  take  in 
their  welfare  !  No  cheating  here ;  and  one  can 
lay  his  head  on  his  pillow  in  peace,  knowing 
that  in  the  morning  there  will  be  no  trickery  in 
the  account — a  dollar  for  his  sleep,  a  dollar  for 
his  breakfast,  and  he  can  depart  in  peace  ! 

The  approach  to  Liverpool  through  the  tunnel 
is  any  thing  but  pleasant — this  subterranean 
travelling  is  unnatural — it  seems  a  great  dea. 
worse  to  be  killed  under  ground  than  in  the  dear 
air  of  heaven,  and  beneath  the  calm  quiet  sky. 
Liverpool  is  an  unpleasant  city  to  stop  in  ;  yet, 
before  I  embarked,  I  was  compelled  to  spend  a 
month  there.  I  will  not  describe  it ;  I  do  not 
like  to  describe  cities — they  are  simply  a  con- 
fused heap  of  houses,  an  endless  web  of  streets. 
One  day  as  I  was  sauntering  along,  I  saw  in  a 
stairway  leading  to  the  second  floor,  a  man  two- 
thirds  drunk — dressed  like  a  clown,  with  a  sin- 
gle feather  in  his  cap,  and  a  monkey  hopping  to 
and  from  his  shoulder.  Holding  on  to  a  rope, 
and  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  on  the 
steps  in  his  drunkenness,  he  kept  bawling  out  to 
the  passers  by,  "  Walk  up,  gentlemen — only  a 
penny  a  piece — the  tallest  woman  in  tlie  world, 
besides  Oliver  Cromwell,  Queen  Elizabeth, 
Henry  the  VIII.,  and  other  great  men,  large  as 
life — only  one  penny  a  sight — well  worth  the 
money.  Walk  up,  gentlemen !"  It  was  such 
an  out-of-the-way-looking  hole,  and  withal  such 
a  comical  advertisement,  that  I  presented  my 
penny,  and  "  walked  up"  and  sure  enough  there 
was  a  woman  seven  feet  high,  towering  head 
and  shoulders  above  me.  She  was  slender, 
which,  with  her  female  apparel,  that  always  ex- 
aggerates the  height,  made  her  appear  a  greater 
giantess  even  than  she  was.  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes,  and  suspected  there  was  some  trickery 


138 


ENGLISH  CITIES. 


practiced,  and  told  the  exliibitor  so.  He  immedi- 
ately requested  her  to  sit  down,  and  take  off  her 
shoes  and  stockings,  and  then  asked  me  to  feel 
of  her  feet  and  ankles.  I  did  so,  and  found  that 
they  were  actually  bone  and  muscle.  But,  to 
use  a  western  phrase,  she  was  "  a  tall  speci- 
men," and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  I  had  seen 
three  of  tlie  most  remarkable  women  in  the 
world.  First,  a  French  woman  who  weighed 
sir  hundred  and  twenty-four  pounds — a  moun- 
tain of  flesh  ;  second,  an  Italian  without  arms? 
who  could  write,  thread  a  needle,  embroider, 
sketch,  load  and  fire  a  pistol  with  her  toes,  and 
last  of  all,  tliis  English  girl,  seven  feet  high,  or 
thereabouts. 

Another  day,  as  I  was  passing  along  a  bye 
street,  I  heard  some  one  singing,  and  soon  after 
a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves  emerged  into  view, 
leading  four  children — two  on  each  side — and 
singing  as  he  approached.  He  took  the  middle 
of  tiie  street — the  children  carrying  empty  bas- 
kets— and  thus  traversed  the  city.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  he  was  a  beggar,  and  this  was  his 
mode  of  asking  alms.  With  his  head  up,  and 
a  smile  on  his  countenance,  he  was  singing 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  something  about  a  happy 
family.  At  all  events,  the  burden  of  his  strain 
was  the  happiness  he  enjoyed  with  his  children : 
how  pleasant  their  home  was  for  the  love  that 
dwelt  in  it,  &c.  He  did  not  speak  of  his  poverty 
and  sufferings,  or  describe  the  starvation  in  his 
hovel,  but  taking  a  different  tack,  solicited  cha- 
rity on  the  ground  that  people  ought  to  keep 
such  a  happy  family  in  the  continued  possession 
of  their  happiness.  Where  begging  is  so  com- 
mon, imposture  so  frequent,  and  men's  hearts 
have  become  so  steeled  against  the  pitiful  tale 
and  the  haggard  face,  the  appearance  of  suffer- 
ing accomplishes  but  little ;  and  I  could  not  but 
admire  the  man's  ingenuity  in  thus  striking  out 
a  new  path  for  himself.  Still,  it  was  pitiful  to 
watch  him — it  seemed  such  an  effort  to  appear 
happy,  and  the  hungry-looking  children  at  his 
side,  though  trained  to  their  task,  and  wearing 
bright  faces,  seemed  so  way-worn  and  weary. 
I  followed  their  footsteps  with  my  eyes  till  they 
turned  an  angle  of  the  street,  and  as  their  voices 
died  away  in  the  distance,  I  fell  into  one  of  my 
fits  of  musing  on  life,  its  strange  destinies,  and 
the  unfathomable  mystery  attaclied  to  the  un- 
equal distribution  of  good  and  evil  in  it.  Alas ! 
how  different  is  the  same  man^that  is,  tlic  out- 
ward man.  Circumstances  have  placed  one  on 
a  throne,  and  hia  heart  is  haughty,  his  glance 
defiant,  and  his  spirit  proud  and  overbearing. 


Misfortune  has  placed  another  in  poverty  and 
want,  and  he  crouches  at  your  feet — solicits, 
with  trembling  hands  and  eyes  full  of  tears,  a 
mere  moiety  for  his  children.  Injustice,  abuse, 
contempt,  cannot  sting  him  into  resistance  or 
arouse  his  wrath.  With  his  manhood  all  bro- 
ken down,  he  crawls  the  earth,  the  bye- word 
and  jest  of  his  fellows.  Yet  life  to  him  is  just 
as  solemn  as  to  the  monarch, — it  has  the  same 
responsibilities,  the  same  destinies.  That  hum- 
bled and  degraded  spirit  will  yet  stand  up  in  all 
its  magnificent  proportions,  and  assert  its  rank 
in  the  universe  of  God.  The  heap  of  rags  will 
blaze  like  a  star  in  its  immortality — and  yet  that 
unfortunate  creature  may  struggle  and  suffer 
through  this  life,  and  enter  on  another  only  to 
experience  still  greater  unhappiness.  The 
ways  of  Heaven  are  indeed  dark  and  beyond 
the  clouds. 

INIy  friend  left  me  at  Liverpool,  and  took  the 
steamer  for  Dublin,  where  I  promised,  in  a  few 
days,  to  meet  him.  I  wished  to  make  the  land 
route  through  North  Wales,  and  then  cross 
over  the  Channel.  Crossing  the  Mersey  in  a 
ferry-boat,  I  took  the  cars  for  the  old  city  of 
Chester,  lying  on  the  confines  of  England  and 
Wales.  This  ancient  town,  wliich  has  borne 
such  a  part  in  the  history  of  England,  stands 
just  as  it  did  centuries  ago.  The  same  immense 
wall  surrounds  it  that  guarded  it  in  knightly 
days.  It  environs  the  entire  place,  and  is  so 
broad  that  the  top  furnishes  a  fine  promenade 
for  three  abreast.  Towards  evening  I  wandered 
without  the  walls,  and  strolled  away  towards 
the  banks  of  the  Dee.  It  was  a  lovely  after- 
noon for  England — the  sky  was  clear,  and  the 
air  pure  and  invigorating.  A  single  arch  is 
sprung  across  the  stream,  said  to  be  one  of  the 
largest  in  the  world.  It  is  a  beautiful  curve,  and 
presents  a  picturesque  appearance,  leaping*  so 
far  from  one  green  bank  to  another.  Along  the 
shore,  winding  through  the  field,  is  a  raised 
embankment,  covered  with  green  turf  for  a 
promenade.  Along  this,  ladies  and  gentlemen 
were  sauntering  in  groups,  while  here  and 
tliere  a'fisherman  was  casting  his  line.  It  was 
a  lovely  scene — there  on  the  quiet  banks  of  the 
Dee,  and  in  full  view  of  the  old  walls  of  Ches- 
ter, I  sat  down  under  a  tree,  and  thought  long 
and  anxiously  of  home.  It  is  always  thus — in 
the  crowded  city,  and  turmoil  and  hurry  of  tra- 
vel, one  almost  forgets  he  has  a  home  or  far- 
distant  friends — but  a  single  strain  of  soothing 
music,  one  quiet  night,  or  one  lonely  walk, 
brings  them  all  back  to  him,  and  ho  wonders 


LINES. 


139 


tliat  lie  ever  left  them  for  boisterous  scenes. 
Oiie  hour  we  are  all  energy  and  will — wishing 
for  a  field  of  great  risks  and  great  deeds,  and 
feci  confined  and  straitened  for  want  of  greater 
scope  and  freer  action — the  next  we  feel  lost  in 
the  world  of  active  life  around  us — utterly  un- 
equal to  its  demands  on  our  energies,  and  thirst 
only  for  a  quiet  home  and  more  tranquil  enjoy- 
ments. The  land  of  my  birth  looked  greener 
to  me  there,  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  than  ever 
before — and  the  wide  waste  of  waters  never  so 
wide  and  so  unfriendly. 

At  sunset  I  took  the  stage-coach  for  the 
western  coast  of  Wales.  I  travelled  till  mid- 
night, and  then  stopped  to  make  the  rest  of  the 
route  along  the  north  shore  by  daylight.  A 
little  Welsh  inn  received  me,  the  landlady  of 
which,  in  return  for  my  politeness  to  her,  se- 
cured me  a  seat  next  day  in  the  coach,  which  I 
otherwise  should  have  lost.  She  had  been  ac- 
customed to  the  haughty  bearing  of  English- 
men, and  though  I  treated  her  with  only  the  ci- 
vility common  in  my  own  country,  it  seemed  so 
uncommon  to  her,  that  she  asked  me  where  I 
resided.  She  seemed  delighted  when  I  told  her 
in  America,  and  the  next  morning  prevailed  on 


the  driver  to  give  me  a  scat,  though  he  had  told 
me  the  coach  was  full. 

I  had  read  much  of  Wales,  and  had  obtained, 
when  a  boy,  very  extravagant  ideas  of  the  wild- 
ness  of  its  scenery  from  Mrs.  Hemans's  poems. 
It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  I  had  just  come  from 
the  Alps,  the  grandest  scenery  on  the  globe, 
and  hence  should  prepare  for  disappointment ; 
but  expected  to  be  astonished  with  beetling  crags 
and  lofty  mountains,  until  at  last  Snowdon 
crowned  the  whole,  as  Mont  Blanc  does  the 
peaks  that  environ  him.  I  never  stopped  to  ques- 
tion my  impressions,  nor  inquire  when  or  where 
I  derived  them ;  and  hence  was  wholly  unpre- 
pared for  the  diminutive  hills  that  met  my  gaze. 
One  must  never  form  a  notion  of  a  cataract  or 
a  mountain  from  an  Englishman's  description 
pf  it.  Living  on  an  island  and  in  a  rolling 
country  which  furnishes  no  elevations  of  mag- 
nitude, and  hence  no  large  streams,  he  regards 
those  relatively  large  of  immense  size.  Still, 
the  north  coast  of  Wales  presents  bold  and 
rugged  features ;  and  with  its  old  castles 
frowning  amid  the  desolate  scenery — gray  as 
the  rock  they  stand  on — is  well  worth  a  visit. 
But  these  I  will  reserve  for  another  time. 


iLinEfiiis 


On  an  Incident  observed  froai  the  deck  of  a  steamboat  on  the  Mississippi  river. 


Where  the  dark  primeval  forests 
Rise  against  the  western  sky, 

And  "  the  Father  of  VV^aters  " 
In  his  strength  goes  rushing  by  : 

There  an  eagle,  flying  earthward 
From  liis  eyrie  far  above, 

With  a  serpent  of  the  forest 
In  a  fierce  encounter  strove. 

Now  he  gains  and  now  he  loses, 
Now  he  frees  his  ruffled  wings ; 

And  now  high  in  air  he  rises  ; 
But  the  serpent  round  him  clings. 

In  that  death  embrace  entwining, 
Now  they  sink  and  now  they  rise  ; 

But  the  serpent  wins  the  battle 
With  the  monarch  of  the  skies. 


Yet  his  wings  still  struggle  sunward. 
Though  that  crushing  weight  they  bear; 

But  more  feebly  those  broad  pinions 
Strike  the  waves  of  upper  air. 

Down  to  earth  he  sinks  a  captive 
In  that  writhing,  living  chain  ; 

Never  o'er  that  blue  horizon 

Will  his  proud  form  sweep  again. 

Never  more  in  lightning  flashes 

Will  his  eye  of  terror  gleam 
Round  the  high  and  rocky  eyrie, 

Where  his  lonely  eaglets  scream. 

Oh,  majestic,  royal  eagle. 

Soaring  sunward  from  thy  birth. 

Thou  hast  lost  the  realm  of  heaven 

For  one  moment  on  the  earth !      A.  C  I 


110 


CARLYLE    AND    HIS    IMITATORS. 


(DAmiljYE,]!   AHIG)   HUS   lEMIT'irAf ©IS, 


One  of  the  oddest  specimens  of  humanity  now 
^guring  in  this  planet,  take  him  altogether,  is 
Thomas  Carltle.  Say  what  you  will  about 
him,  he  is  a  psychological  curiosity — a  sort  of 
lusus  naturcc — if  we  may  be  allowed  to  dip  up  a 
couple  of  spoonfuls  from  the  somewhat  turbid 
waters  of  schools.  We  have  been  vexed  with 
him  a  hundred  times  at  least,  during  our  journey 
in  his  company  through  a  single  duodecimo  vo- 
lume, for  the  manner  in  which  he  breaks  up  the 
Anglo-Saxon  language,  and  hurls  its  fragments 
at  our  head,  as  a  volcano  belches  out  red-hot 
stones  and  lava.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot  say 
we  bear  the  honest  old  Goth  any  lasting  malice, 
for  aU  that.  Nay,  we  are  not  quite  sure  but  "  at 
bottom,"  as  he  would  say,  we  like  him  pretty 
well,  with  all  his  unpardonable  antics.  His 
mind  does  not  act  like  other  people's  minds.  Its 
machinery  is  constituted  on  a  different  principle. 
The  economy  of  intellectual  motion,  so  to  speak, 
is  different  in  his  mind.  We  have  never  wor- 
shipped him,  aa  some  have.  We  are  indeed  no 
hero-worshiper.  That  the  philosophy  of  this 
singular  man  is  sometimes  defective,  perhaps 
worse  than  defective,  we  will  not  deny.  Then 
his  style  is  not  our  style,  nor  any  one's  else,  for 
that  matter,  but  his  own.  There  are  peculiari- 
ties in  the  man's  method  of  literary  locomotion, 
often,  which  are  awkward  enough.  He  does 
not  travel  the  turnpike-road  always ;  and  when 
he  docs,  he  occasionally  has  a  Mazeppa  of  a 
horse  to  ride — a  horse  not  half  so  tame  and  gen- 
tle as  some  nags  we  wot  of  who  toil  in  a  bark- 
mill.  Apropos  of  these  same  bark-mills,  there 
are  a  host  of  them,  and  a  great  many  kind  and 
gentle  horses  seem  to  bo  necessary  to  turn  them. 
But,  as  we  were  saying  a  moment  ago,  we  have 
no  idols,  and  if  we  had,  perhaps  Thomas  Carlyle 
would  not  be  one  of  them.  Nevertheless,  we 
venture  to  say,  that  we  like  the  quaint  old  man. 
We  are  seldom  in  his  company,  without  being 
interested  and  instructed. 

True,  he  figures  in  a  costume  about  as  an- 
cient as  the  Elizabethian  era — some  think  as  far 
back  aa  William  the  Norman.  But  what  of 
that  ?    What  do  wo  caro  for  his  wardrobe,  so 


that  the  man  who  wears  it  is  well  enough  ?  We 
have  no  patience  with  those  people  who  insist 
on  removing  the  old  man's  knee-buckles,  and 
brushing  all  the  powder  off  his  wig,  before  they 
admit  him  to  their  parlor.  We  are  for  having 
a  man  tell  what  is  in  him,  in  his  own  way.  If 
he  has  nothing  to  say,  then  let  him  hold  his 
tongue.  But  if  he  has  an  idea,  or  a  bundle  of 
ideas,  in  the  name  of  humanity,  let  him  utter  it 
or  them.  Don't  stop  his  mouth,  because  he  can- 
not enunciate  the  aspirate  in  Shibholeih.  That 
matter  of  the  aspirate  is  worth  attending  to,  no 
doubt.  But  as  his  tongue  cannot  master  it,  let 
it  go  for  once. 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  Carlyle's  Scandinavian 
jargon."  So  it  seems.  Well,  we  coniesji  that 
considering  it  is  English,  the  man's  dialect  ia 
rather  as  trange  compound.  It  is  to  be  presumed 
that  he  sometimes  groups  his  words  together 
without  the  fear  of  Blair  or  Alison  before  his 
eyes.  Then  he  gallops  along,  once  in  a  while, 
without  even  nodding  to  Dr.  Johnson  as  he 
passes.  That  is  "  the  unkindest  cut  of  all," 
considering  how  the  old  lion  liked  to  be  noticed  ; 
though  it  is  the  more  pardonable  certainly,  when 
we  recollect  how  Carlyle  has  made  a  hero  of 
tliis  same  dictionary-maker,*  and  of  Boswell,  too. 
almost,  when  we  come  to  tliat.  Grant  all  this. 
If  the  words  the  man  speaks,  or  wants  to  speak, 
are  his  own  words,  will  you  not  let  him  utter 
them  ?  He  is  a  barbarian,  forsooth  !  But  will 
you  even  turn  a  barbarian — an  uncouth  China- 

"  *  I  find  in  Johnson's  books  undisputed  traces  of 
a  great  intellect  and  a  great  heart — ever  welcome 
under  what  obstructions  and  perversions  soever. 
They  are  sincere  words,  those  of  his.  He  means 
things  by  them.  A  wondrous  bucl^ram  style,  and 
the  best  he  could  set  to  them — a  measured  grand- 
iloquence, stepping,  or  ratlier  stalking  along  in  a 
very  solemn  way,  grown  obsolete  now  ;  sometimes 
a  tumid  «i  st  of  phraseology,  not  in  proportion  to  the 
contents  of  it:  all  this  you  will  have  to  put  up  with. 
For  the  phraseology,  turmid  or  not,  has  always 
something  within  it.  So  many  beautiful  styles  and 
books,  with  nolhitifr  in  them  !  A  man  is  a  malcfac- 
•  tor  10  the  world  who  writes  such.  They  «re  the 
avoidable  kind"— Heroes  and  Men  Worthip,  p.  225. 
Am,  edition. 


CARLYLE    AND    HIS    IMITATORS. 


141 


man,  or  a  savage  Kamschatkan  out  of  doors,  if 
he  is  civil  and  well-behaved,  the  more  especially 
if  he  has  any  thing  to  say  to  you,  and  is  sincere 
in  his  utterance  withal  ?  You  would  do  no  such 
tiling. 

Carlyle  is  sincere,  artless,  and  unaffected. 
This  it  is,  which  in  our  way  of  thinking,  should 
atone  for  a  multitude  of  peculiarities  in  his  style, 
which  some  regard  as  semi-barbarisms.  He  has 
indeed  been  charged  with  affectation.  Some 
think  he  is  a  compound  of  affectation  and  con- 
ceit. We  know  better.  Every  one  who  knows 
him  well,  must  know  better.  If  we  believed  the 
method  (or  want  of  method,  if  you  will,)  so  ap- 
parent in  all  this  remarkable  man's  efforts,  were 
all  the  result  of  affectation,  or  were  not  a 
part  of  liimself,  naturally,  legitimately,  flowing 
from  his  soul,  we  would  make  a  bonfire  of  his 
books  sooner  than  we  would  speak  a  word  in 
praise  of  them.  We  do  not  believe  it.  In  our 
judgment,  affectation,  literary  affectation,  is  one 
of  the  unpardonable  sins.  We  have  no  patience 
with  it,  whatever.  Of  this  sin  we  honestly  be- 
lieve Carlyle  is  as  innocent  as  a  cliild. 

This  is  a  very  important  point,  however.  On 
this  pivot,  indeed,  a  favorable  or  unfavorable 
estimate  may  turn.  Sd  that  it  ought  not  to  be 
dismissed  with  a  mere  assertion.  Suppose  we 
analyze  a  little  the  man  Carlyle,  and  ascertain, 
if  we  can,  what  are  some  of  the  wheels  in  his 
machinery,  and  how  he  came  by  them.  We 
have  said  that  he  is  a  singular  specimen  of  hu- 
manity ;  and  it  requires  no  shrewdness  to  dis- 
cover that.  He  was  not  made  at  first  like  the 
great  majority  of  those  combinations  of  matter 
and  spirit  we  are  accustomed  to  meet  with.  He 
was  cast  in  a  different  mould.  Don't  misun- 
derstand us,  reader.  We  are  no  fatalist — ^no- 
thing of  the  kind.  We  believe,  nevertheless, 
in  primitive  intellectual  biases.  And  this  is 
scarcely  more  than  contending  that  the  mind  is 
individual — ^that  it  operates  by  itself,  and  does 
not  amalgamate  with  other  minds — that  while  it 
presents  generic  phases,  perfectly  agreeing  with 
those  of  every  other  specimen,  it  exhibits  some, 
or  may  exhibit  some  phenomena  which  are  pe- 
culiar to  it,  and  so  are  remarkable.  Why  not  ? 
Is  it  not  so  in  every  other  department  of  nature  ? 
Why  should  the  genus  man — humanity,  we 
should  rather  say— be  an  exception  ?  Why 
should  the  analogy,  so  apparent  elsewhere,  fail 
here  ?  Carlyle's  mind  had  in  it  somethmg  po- 
sitive, something  quite  out  of  the  ordmary  course 
of  things,  from  the  outset ;  and  this  something 
grew  with  his  growth  and  strengthened  with  his 


strength.  What  was  that  something  ?  That 
is  a  question  not  so  easily  answered.  You  have 
done  a  great  deal,  when  you  have  read  a  mind 
of  the  first  class. 

Carlyle  had  an  early  habit  of  looking  into  the 
heart  of  tilings.  No  one  despised  the  mere  shell 
of  the  kernel  more  than  he  did.  His  contempt 
for  outside  draperies  and  conventional  forms, 
is  always  one  of  the  most  observable  features  in 
his  whole  character.  He  has  no  sj-mpathy  with 
fustian.  This  of  itself  is  the  component  ele- 
ment of  sincerity.  It  can  hardly  be  taking  too 
much  for  granted,  to  call  Carlyle  naturally  sin- 
cere, deeply  in  earnest.  Then  he  had  a  soxd, 
too — a  soul  that  could  sympathize  with  human- 
ity, and  was  in  harmony  with  it.  This  it  is 
which  brings  him  into  contact  witli  every  one 
who  can  understand  him.  The  genius  of  his 
great  intellect  is  so  unique,  that  the  cog-wheels 
cannot  always  touch  corresponding  wheels  in 
our  intellect,  and  set  them  agoing.  But  there 
are  points  of  contact  between  his  soul  and  ours. 
We  feel  tliat  liis  is  like  our  own,  and  the  two 
move  in  imison.  Perhaps  liis  sensibility  to  hu- 
man woe  is  not  always  well  bestowed.  But 
what  of  that  ?  So  that  he  has  a  heart,  we  ought 
not  to  grumble  too  much,  if  his  sjrrapatlues,  in 
their  overflow,  sometimes  reach  objects  which 
we  regard  as  less  deserving. 

But  the  great  distinguisliing  feature  in  his 
mind,  that  which  more  than  any  other  rendered 
it  a  singular  mind,  was,  we  apprehend,  not  so 
much  what  he  thought  of  men  and  things,  as 
the  mode  in  which  he  grouped  together  those 
thoughts,  and  laid  them  away  for  use.  His  so- 
called  barbarisms  in  dialect  may  be  accounted 
for,  in  a  considerable  degree,  on  tJiis  principle, 
without  resorting  to  the  charge  of  affectation. 
Language,  in  general,  is  not  a  very  arbitrary 
thing,  after  all.  Men,  groups  of  men,  make 
their  language ;  and  each  one  of  all  the  lan- 
guages on  the  globe  has  peculiarities,  answer- 
able to  certain  peculiarities  in  tlie  respective 
classes  of  men  who  originated  the  language. 
The  men  reflect  themselves  in  their  language, 
as  distinctly  almost  as  a  face  is  reflected  in  a 
mirror.  So  do  individual  men  present  us  with 
a  picture  of  themselves  in  their  modes  of  exhib- 
iting ideas.  They  do  little  else,  if  they  are  sin- 
cere, honest,  unaffected.  This  does  not  need 
argument  or  illustration,  surely. 

Now,  taking  it  for  granted  that  Carlyle's  in- 
tellectual machinery  is  singularly  constructod — 
so  singularly,  indeed,  that  it  stands  almost  by 
itself — ^what  need  is  there  of  going  farther  to  ac- 


142 


CARLYLC     AND     HIS    LMITATORS. 


count  for  the  singularities  in  his  use  of  lan- 
gTiage  ?  What  possible  necessity  can  there  be 
for  lugging  in  this  charge  of  affectation  ? 

But  tliere  is  another  circumstance  to  be  taken 
into  the  account.  Carlyle  had  a  German  edu- 
cation. What  he  would  have  become,  if  he 
had  not  visited  Germany,  it  is  impossible  to 
know.  But  we  may  be  sure,  that  to  his  foreign 
education,  are  to  be  attributed  some  of  his  prom- 
inent peculiarities.  He  had  a  German  mind, 
to  start  with ;  or  rather,  liis  intellectual  struc- 
ture was  somewhat  analogous  to  the  German, 
for  in  classing  such  a  mind  as  his,  we  are  puz- 
zled to  find  a  genus  to  which  it  may  be  attached. 
There  was,  at  least,  some  kind  of  elective  affin- 
ity between  his  modes  of  thinking,  and  those  of 
our  estimable  friends  in  Germany  :  and  one  not 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  genius  of  Carlyle, 
might  expect  that  he  would  bolt  at  once  the 
whole  system  of  German  philosophy,  horns  and 
all.  But  he  did  no  such  thing ;  and  there  were 
at  least  two  good  reasons  why :  first,  (we  speak 
it  with  the  profoundest  respect  imaginable,  for 
we  love  the  Germans,  though  we  may  be  par- 
doned for  loving  truth  more,)  he  had  too  much 
good  sense ;  and  secondly,  he  is  incapaple  of 
being  a  very  quiescent  disciple  of  any  school. 
The  schools — the  "  university  professorships," 
as  he  sometimes  designates  them — are  not  as- 
sociated with  the  best  of  company  in  his  vo- 
cabulary. 

Still,  though  it  was  hard  work  to  engraft  the 
scions  of  the  German  philosophy  upon  such  a 
stock  as  Carlyle's  mind,  yet  it  was  sufficiently 
homogeneous  with  that  philosophy,  to  be  in 
some  measure  shaped  by  it.  His  contact  with 
German  mind,  moreover,  tended  to  develop 
Bome  already  existing  germs,  which,  when  de- 
veloped, more  than  any.  other  circumstances, 
rendered  him  the  singular  man  he  is.  This  in- 
timacy added  strength  to  his  singular  habits  of 
thinking,  and  tended  to  determine  more  unalter- 
ably the  mode  of  expressing  his  thoughts.  This 
you  see  plainly  enough  in  his  "  Sartor  Resar- 
tuR."  You  see  that,  although  he  will  not  go  to 
the  German  mill  for  his  grist,  ho  has  no  antipa- 
thy to  riding  in  a  German  vehicle  over  a  German 
road.  And  then  one  can  hardly  help  thinking 
that  he  relishes  a  loaf  of  bread  occasionally, 
from  this  same  German  flour,  though  he  is 
careful  to  say  nothing  about  its  origin,  and  per- 
haps, at  tlio  time,  ho  forgets  where  it  was 
ground. 

Now,  put  these  several  circumstances  togeth- 
er, and  you  have  the  elements  that  made  Car- 


lyle. In  his  habits  of  thinking,  he  was  naturally 
bold,  independent,  daring.  He  was  as  wild  and 
untractable  as  the  deer  in  his  mountain-home. 
Nevertheless  he  was  "full  of  the  milk  of  liuman 
kindness."  His  soul  is  more  prominent,  even, 
than  his  intellect,  in  many  of  his  efforts.  He 
honestly  believes  he  has  a  mission  to  accom- 
plish to  his  fellow-men.  He  sees  (and  who 
cannot  see  ?)  that  the  machinery  of  society  is 
out  of  order,  and  he  is  anxious  to  do  something 
to  regulate  it.  Nay,  all  the  ardor  of  his  enthu- 
siastic soul  is  enlisted  in  the  thing.  Besides, 
his  ideas,  naturally  grouped  together  uniquely — 
almost  grotesquely,  perhaps — were  for  a  long 
time  under  German  influence,  which  tended  to 
increase  and  fix  this  peculiarity  of  grouping. 
Bear  in  mind,  too,  that  an  honest,  individual 
mind,  in  the  expression  of  his  thoughts,  only  in- 
dicates'the  manner  in  which  they  exist  in  the 
mind,  inter  se.  If  his  style  is  singular,  it  is  be-, 
cause  his  ideas  are  singularly  arranged.  The 
dialect  of  Carlyle  is  only  an  index  of  the  inter- 
nal economy  of  his  magazine  of  thought. 

Why  not  let  a  man  speak  the  thought  that  is 
in  him  ?  Why  force  him  to  utter  liis  oracle 
through  your  throat  ?  Why  not  allow  a  little 
latitude  in  this  matter  ?  In  other  words,  why 
compel  a  man  to  be  somebody  else,  before  you 
will  listen  patiently  to  him  ?  You  never  quar- 
rel with  anybody,  let  his  nose  be  ever  so  un- 
sightly, because  he  does  not  go  to  some  quack 
of  a  nose-maker,  and  get  a  new  one.  There  is 
no  disputing  about  tastes,  you  say  ;  and  you  let 
him  appear  in  the  nose  that  likes  him  best.  It 
may  be  a  Grecian  nose,  or  a  Gothic  nose,  for 
aught  you  care.  It  may  be  Roman,  too,  as 
crooked  as  the  spring  of  an  old-fashioned  chaise- 
top,  and  as  capacious,  almost ;  it  is  all  the  same, 
to  you,  so  that  it  is  his  own  nose.  It  is  never 
regarded  as  particularly  a  nuisanc.3.  You  tol- 
erate men  with  faces  a^s  ugly  as  a  hedge-fence. 
Why  not  allow  a  little  license  in  the  features 
of  men's  intellects  ?  This  is  all  we  ask.  Grant 
us  this,  and  we  have  no  fear  that  you  will  treat 
Carlyle  as  an  outlaw. 

We  have  no  patience  with  men  and  women, 
we  confess  it,  who  are  continually  trying  to 
drown  a  man's  voice,  when  he  has  something 
to  say,  by  ringing  changes  on  Walker's  Dic- 
tionary, and  Blair's  Rhetoric,  and  Crabbe's  Syn- 
onyms. That  may  be  a  delicious  concord  of 
sweet  sounds  to  some  ears;  but  we  would  at 
any  lime  as  soon  hear  the  somewhat  unmelodious 
music  produced  by  the  filing  of  a  saw.  This 
bringing  an  author  up  to  an  arbitrary  standard, 


CARLYLE    AND    HIS    IMITATORS. 


143 


a«  our  fathers  (peace  to  their  ashes !)  used  to  i 
try  their  witches,  and  ransacking  the  Spectator, 
and  Alison's  Treatise  on  Taste,  to  determine  the 
propriety  of  a  certain  metaphor,  simile,  trope, 
hyperbole,  parabola,  truncated  cone,  or  what 
not,  is,  in  our  way  of  thinking,  to  say  the  very 
least  of  it,  pretty  small  business.  It  is  small 
enough  when  applied  to  prose ;  it  is  tenfold 
smaller  when  it  has  to  do  with  poetry.  Some 
critics  are  always  looking  through  a  microscope. 
They  never  will  let  an  author  have  any  soul. 
They  cannot  bear  to  see  a  man  with  a  spark  of 
enthusiasm.  lie  must  "talk  by  the  card,"  as 
Hamlet  found  it  necessary  to  talk  with  the  cap- 
tious grave-digger.  O  what  a  picking  of  feath- 
ers there  is,  when  tliese  eagles  see  a  poor  fel- 
low's muse  essaying  to  rise  a  little  above  the 
dust  of  the  public  highway !  Such  philosophi- 
cal, ultra-intellectual  poets  as  these  criticfs  would 
make,  give  them  a  chance,  would  freeze  up 
what  little  juice  there  might  be  in  a  man's  soul, 
by  half  a  dozen  of  their  couplets. 

Away  with  such  a  mechanical,  artificial 
standard  of  judgment !  We  would  rather  have 
Carlyle's  poetry,  at  a  venture,  though  every- 
body would  smile  at  the  idea  of  poetic  numbers 
coming  from  such  a  source — we  would  rather 
have  Carlyle's  poetry  a  hundred  times  over,  than 
the  gibberish  of  these  empirics,  whom  no  muse 
ever  owned — men  who  manufacture  poetry  as 
you  would  a  spade  or  a  wheel-barrow.  Poetry, 
to  be  worth  an}^ng,  must  be  an  emanation 
from  the  heart.  It  must  gush  out  of  the  deep 
founts  of  a  full  soul,  as  pure  water  issues  from 
a  blessed  spring.  It  must  not  be  ground  out  of 
the  intellect,  as  flour  is  ground  out  of  a  mill. 
People  may  think  what  they  please,  and  say 
what  ihey  please,  about  this  same  matter  of  po- 
etry ;  but  it  seems  to  us,  that  just  the  stupidest, 
driest,  huskiest  piece  of  literary  nonsense  that 
ever  blundered  into  this  planet,  is  your  merely 
intellectual  poem,  that  bears  on  every  part  of  it 
the  marks  of  the  saw  and  the  jack-plane.  More- 
over, we  ad\nse  all  men,  women,  and  children, 
who  do  not  want  a  chronic  literary  dyspepsia, 
to  keep  clear  of  those  who  teach  metaphysics, 
spherical  trigonometry,  and  conic  sections,  in 


their  poems.  We  ask  nothing  for  the  advice 
though ;  it  is  quite  gratuitous. 

May  we  not,  in  this  connection,  borrow  a 
sketch  of  the  true  poet  from  this  same  Carlyle  ? 
A  singidar  oracle,  to  speak  on  such  a  subject, 
some  may  think.  But  hear  him  a  moment.  He 
may  be  ever  so  crazy,  but  there  is  method  in 
his  madness,  we  opine.  He  has  been  discours- 
ing to  us  about  Shakspeare,  the  world's  great 
portrait-painter,  as  he  calls  him.  He  thinks 
him  remarkable  for  his  intellect — for  his  power 
of  seeing  into  the  heart  of  things.  After  all,  he 
says,  "  it  is  the  poet's  first  gift,  as  it  is  all  men's, 
that  he  have  intellect  enough.  [Carlyle  here 
means  the  power  of  seeing  deep  into  things. 
He  does  not  use  the  w^ord  intellect,  in  contra- 
distinction to  heart,  of  course.]  He  will  be  a 
poet,  if  he  have — a  poet  in  word — or,  failing 
that,  perhaps  still  better,  a  poet  in  act.  Whe- 
ther he  write  at  all,  and  if  so,  whether  in  prose 
or  in  verse,  will  depend  on  accidents — who 
knows  on  what  extremely  trivial  accidents  I 
perhaps  on  his  having  had  a  singing-master,  on 
his  ha\ing  been  taught  to  sing,  in  his  boyhood. 
But  the  faculty  which  enables  him  to  discover 
the  inner  heart  of  things  and  the  harmony  tliat 
dwells  there,  is  not  the  result  of  habits  or  acci- 
dents, but  the  gift  of  Nature  herself — the  pri- 
mary outfit  for  a  heroic  man  in  what  sort  so- 
ever. To  the  poet,  then,  as  to  every  other,  we 
say  first  of  all,  see.  If  you  cannot  do  that,  it  is 
of  no  use  to  keep  stringing  rhymes  together, 
jingling  sensibilities  against  each  other,  and 
name  yourself  a  poet — there  is  no  hope  for  you. 
If  you  can,  there  is,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  action 
or  speculation,  all  manner  of  hope." 

But  we  are  devoting  so  much  space  to  the 
master,  that  we  have  little  left  for  the  disciples. 
And  this  is  the  less  to  be  regretted,  perhaps,  as 
those  wretched  vagabonds  deserve  but  little  no- 
tice. However,  they  must  not  be  overlooked 
altogether ;  and  with  the  reader's  kind  permis- 
sion, we  will  show  this  genus  some  considera- 
tion in  another  number.  Their  name  is  legion ; 
and  they  form  a  very  respectably  numerous 
menagerie  of  themselves. 


144 


CARLYLE    AND    HIS    IMITATORS. 


CHAPTER  II. 


As  we  said  in  the  previous  chapter,  when 
we  were  making  our  apology  for  Carlyle — 
or  as  we  were  going  to  say,  which  was  it  ? — 
we  cannot  understand  the  meaning,  much  less 
the  app  opriateness,  of  the  stereotyped  phrase, 
"  favorite  author."  You  might  as  well  talk 
about  a  favorite  article  of  dress,  or  a  favorite 
piece  of  furniture,  or  a  favorite  tint  in  the  rain- 
bow. There  is  no  sense  in  the  expression,  that 
ever  we  could  see.  We  know  a  man,  who 
never  wants  to  hear  any  music  out  of  the  key 
of  E  flat.  He  believes  that  to  be  the  key  of 
nature,  and  every  melody  which  has  not  three 
flats  at  the  beginning  of  it,  is  set  down  as  arti- 
ficial, and  discarded  at  once.  Now  people  may 
smile  at  this  man's  taste ;  but  there  is  just  as 
much  reason  in  it  as  there  is  in  setting  up  a 
favorite  autlior,  and  making  the  standard  of  ex- 
cellence consist  in  the  measure  of  conformity 
to  liim.  Surely  a  man  should  have  as  much 
liberty  in  talking,  as  his  neighbor  has  in  sing- 
ing. Why  not  ?  Why  may  we  not  like  equally 
well,  perhaps,  two  styles,  as  opposite  as  the 
poles  in  many  respects  ?  For  our  part  it  is 
no  evidence  of  a  want  of  literary  judgment  or 
consistency,  to  hear  a  man  one  day  praising 
Bishop  Butler — as  laconic  as  a  Delphine  oracle, 
on  the  one  hand — and  tlie  next  day  in  ecstacy 
over  Doctor  Chalmers,  as  diff'use  as  the  air  we 
breathe,  on  the  other  hand. 
■  It  is  the  thought,  rather  than  the  garb  of  the 
thought,  that  is  more  deserving  of  praise  or 
censure.  It  is  the  man — not  his  dress.  Now 
is  there  not  thought  in  Carlyle,  at  the  bottom  of 
his  phraseology  ?  Is  ho  not  a  man  of  genius  ? 
Tlicre  liave  been  a  great  many  definitions  of 
this  same  genius;  and  some  have  narrowed 
down  its  signification  so  that  it  can  only  bo 
predicated  of  about  half  a  score  of  men  and 
women — themselves  included,  of  course — since 
the  creation  of  the  world.    But  may  we  not  say 


of  Carlyle,  as  he  himself  said  of  Schiller — that 
any  notion  of  genius  which  excludes  such  a 
mind,  will  hardly  be  agreeable  to  philosophical 
correctness,  and  will  tend  rather  to  lower  than 
to  exalt  the  dignity  of  the  world  ?  Who  says 
that  this  man  does  not  utter  ideas  of  great 
value — sometimes  of  superlative  beauty  and 
grandeur  ?  Who  will  deny-^who  that  has 
read  him,  thoughtfully,  earnestly,  discrimina- 
ting!)'— that  some  of  his  pages,  in  this  regard, 
are  beds  of  sparkling  diamonds  ?  We  should 
insult  the  judgment  and  taste  of  our  readers, 
and  come  pretty  near  making  a  dunce  of  our- 
selves, in  attempting  to  prove  a  thing  so  nearly 
self-evident.  Otherwise  we  should  be  strongly 
tempted,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  charged  with 
somewhat  of  Carlyle's  prolixity,  to  quote  a  half 
dozen  of  his  sentences.  We  think  we  should 
not  have  to  ransack  a  great  many  chapters,  to 
find  that  number  which  would  be  worth  hear- 
ing. We  think  we  know  of  some  oracles  at 
present  on  the  stage,  not  very  low  in  the  world's 
esteem,  who  have  said  some  weaker  things, 
though  ever  so  beautifully  and  gracefully,  than 
this  honest  old  Visigoth  has  uttered,  for  instance, 
in  his  critique  (or  whatever  you  please  to  call 
it)  of  Shakspeare,  of  Milton,  of  Luther,  of  the 
Puritans,  of  Goethe,  of  Schiller.  But  some- 
thing too  much  of  this. 

A  word  now  as  to  the  imitators  of  Carlyle. 
We  honestly  believe,  that  among  those  who 
have  made  any  noise  in  the  world,  there  never 
was  a  set  of  aspirants  to  literary  fame,  who  de- 
served less  at  the  hands  of  the  critic,  than  these 
servile  copyists.  True,  we  have  raised  our 
voice,  and  tried  to  dissuade  the  mob  from  cru- 
cifying the  master,  but  we  have  no  disposition 
to  spare  the  disciples.  We  must  say — and  this 
is  the  least  we  can  say,  conscientiously — we 
hold  them  in  the  supremest  contempt.  What  a 
wretched,  stupid  piece  of  business  they  make, 


CARLYLE    AND    HIS    L\nTATORS. 


145 


in  retttering  their  rabbi's  oracles,  and  palming 
tliem  off  as  their  own.  And  there  is  such  a 
multitude  of  them,  too,  now-a-days  !  The  i.\n- 
glo-Saxon  world  is  swarming  with  tliese  flies — 
all  tliird-rate  minds,  who  imbibe  not  a  particle  of 
tlie  spirit  of  Carlyle,  and  who  sip  only  enough 
of  him  to  enable  them  to  throw  off  their  sleepy 
rantings  about  nothing,  in  the  form  of  tolerable 
parodies  on  his  style.  We  certainly  have  kept 
our  eyes  and  ears  open  to  little  purpose,  if  they 
are  not  the  silliest  set  of  literary  pretenders — 
the  smallest  specimens  of  crawling  empiricism 
— that  ever  attempted  to  cater  for  the  world's 
edification. 

But  the  mere  fact  of  their  croaking  is  not  the 
worst  of  the  matter.  Tiiese  fellows,  who  glory 
in  out-heroding  Herod,  (as  what  imitator  does 
not  ?)  are  let  loose  upon  the  community  as  llie 
representatives  of  Carlyle,  and  to  some  extent 
they  are  accredited  as  such.  Thus  they  often 
do  a  great  deal  of  mischief.  True,  this  is  the 
only  way  in  which  they  can  do  mischief.  As  a 
general  thing,  they  are  ver)'  docile,  harmless 
animals — "  remarkably  harmless,  except  when 
irritated,"  as  the  cicerone  says  at  the  me- 
nagerie— and  even  then,  the  eflects  of  their 
wrath  are  mostly  eKhibited  in  a  rather  undig- 
nified assault  and  battery  upon  the  English 
tongue. 

An  imitator,  at  best,  is  sufficiently  contempti- 
ble. But  the  man  who  plays  the  harlequin,  and 
who  dresses  himself  up  in  all  manner  of  fan- 
tastic trappings,  and  then  asks  you  to  listen  to 
his  brayings  under  pretence  that  they  are  the 
roarings  of  the  lion  Carlyle,  is  contemptible 
beyond  toleration.  But  after  all,  none  who 
are  familiar  with  the  original,  and  have  withal 
but  a  trifling  knowledge  of  natural  history, 
need  to  unmask  these  vagabonds  to  find  out 
in  what  genus  and  species  to  rank  them.  Their 
ears  protrude  ludicrously  enough  through  the 
shaggy  mantle  they  have  assumed. 

Apropos  of  these  imitators.  One  day  last 
summer,  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city  drove 
us  some  distance  abroad,  in  search  of 

"  Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade." 

We  did  not  discover  that  superlatively  envia- 
ble retreat  exactly.  We  found  shade  enough  for 
all  practical  purposes,  though.  It  abounded,  if 
it  was  not  boundless.  So  much  for  the  shade — 
as  for  a  boundless  contiguity  of  it,  we  found 
nothing  of  the  kind.  Some  things  we  did  find, 
however,  which  perhaps  interested  us  quite  as 
much  on  the  whole,  and  among  the  rest  was  a 


manuscript,  written  by  o«r  friend.  Miss  C , 

giving  some  choice  specimens  from  the  mines 
of  these  imitators  of  Carlyle.  The  WTiter,  it 
ought  to  be  premised,  is  no  admirer  of  Carlyle, 
and  intended  with  these  missiles  to  hit  the 
knuckles  of  tlie  old  gentleman  himself.  Never- 
theless, we  think  the  sticks  and  stones  ought 
to  be  used  about  his  imitators,  especially  the 
first  volley  of  them.  Here  they  come,  how- 
ever, let  them  hit  where  they  may.  So  friend 
author,  if  you  happen  to  be  a  little  vulnerable, 
"  stand  from  under,''  as  tlie  sailors  say.  There 
is  something  coming  down  from  the  mast-head. 

IMITATIONS   OF   CARLYLE. 

'■  Oh  reader  I  hast  thou  never,  through  the 
dim  vista  of  departed  years,  beiield  thy  momen- 
tous destiny  whirling  in  one  chaotic  mass  of 
noctiferous  confusion  in  the  dark  abyss  of  the 
universe  and  nature's  wide,  inscrutable  death- 
scroll  ?  And  hast  thou  not  felt  that  thou  too 
wert  one  embodied  somniferous  nonentity — 
now  hovering  in  seraphic  evolutions  above  the 
sacred  shrine  of  unfruitioned  anticipations, — 
anon,  sailing  upon  the  everchanging,  yet  un- 
changeable surface  of  chaos,  and  wondering 
how  the  deep  soul-humbling  vortex  of  future 
greatness  could  diffuse  unfathomable  gloom 
upon  the  shadowy  vacuity  of  emptiness;  and 
dispel  those  profound  unutterable  night-visions 
of  thy  imagination  ?  And  then,  wafted  beyond 
the  spheres  of  thought  into  the  incoherent  re- 
gions of  transcendentalism,  does  not  thy  soul, 
wrapt  in  dreamless  beatitude,  shadow  forth  the 
incomprehensible  future,  resting  upon  the  eter- 
nal basis  of  ethereal  Christendom  ?  Alas !  I 
know  thou  hast,  and  then,  wearied  out  with 
the  solemn,  deep  and  unutterable  death-notes 
of  the  fathomless  universe,  which  ever  and 
anon  overwhelm  that  mighty  soul  of  thine, 
engulf  thy  airy  visions  beyond  the  depths  of 
vacuity,  and  behold  those  mental  hallucina- 
tions which,  profound  as  infinitude,  envelop 
thy  darkened  understanding.  Is  this  indeed 
thy  inscrutable  destiny?  Deny  it  not,  oh!, 
thou  who  hast  ever  given  free  utterance  to- 
thy  disjointed  echoes  of  tautological  nameless- 
o\ogy,  and  brightened  thy  wits  at  the  sacred 
shrine  of  university-professorships,  with  other 
specimens  of  fathomless  nothingness.  Have 
they  never  horrified  thee  with  their  inharmo- 
nious melody,  and  reminded  thee  that  thou 
too  art  circumambified  with  undoablest  doa- 
bihties,  worthy  of  a  greater  hero  ? 

"  Falter  not ;  this  little  life-stream  of  thine. 


146 


"PAIX    A    VOUS." 


unendurable  though  it  be,  may  emerge  from 
its  pitiful  environment,  into  the  seraphic  mazes 
of  undeniable  realities,  when  thy  latest  life- 
dreams  of  incomprehensible  nothingness  shall 
have  become  the  infalliblest  death-pill  of  im- 
measurablest  time ! 

"  Onward  then,  I  say,  with  undaunted  cour- 
affe,  into  the  deep  sacred  infinitude  of  discover- 
ability ;  and  let  thy  soul-breathings  echo  forth 
that  mystery  of  all  mysteries — deep-seated  for- 
getfulness,  and  everlasting  nihility.  Greatest, 
mightiest,  incomprehensiblest  hero !  Oh  !  could 
we  search  out  the  beginnings  of  thy  deep  unut- 
terable thoughts,  and  trace  thy  wanderings 
onward  to  the  inaccessible  goal  of  ungetata- 
bility  ;  how  would  all  our  profound  soul-aspira- 
tions, sink  into  the  insignificantest  category 
of  unendable  treasureupabilities  !  Vast,  deep, 
infinitude  of  nothingness !  Chaos  of  the  uni- 
verse !  Depth  of  deepest  depths !  What  art 
thou  ?  Wonderful  beyond  our  narrow  opti- 
cality,  is  this  boundless  sphere  of  uncreated 
sublunarism !" 


"  Insatiable  flesh-flies  !  I  envy  ye  not  those 
crazy  phantoms  of  monopolizing  sensuality  ; — 
corn-laws,  starvationizing,  and  repeal  vetoes. 
Whence  come  they?    From  your  sapless  re- 


ceptacles of  concentrated  vacuity.  What  are 
they  ?  Incessant  eruptions  of  those  inexhausti- 
ble volcanic  craters, — vain,  worthless  upper- 
storyism. 

"  Follow,  then,  those  monomaniacal  hallucina- 
tions, if  ye  will.  I  envy  ye  not.  Anon  ye  must 
answer  for  the  life-blood  of  those  victims  of  your 
mammonizing,  soul-enslaving  policy,  by  which 
ye  fill  your  brainless  receptacles,  too  shallow 
for  aught  that  is  shadowless.  Prosper  while 
ye  can,  for  your  day  is  coming.  And  then,  the 
souls  that  are  bodiless  shall  rise  up  and  call  you 
cursed  ;  and  tell  you  of  life-consuming  wo,  and 
soul-consuming  bitterness;  and  tell  of  homes 
that  are  tenantless — brought  to  destruction  as 
in  a  moment ;  for  famine  has  visited  them, 
meagre  and  desolate.  'Tis  a  famine  of  man's 
invention.  Children  of  the  desolate  offered  up 
at  Mammon's  shrine,  rise  up  from  your  sepul- 
chral death-sleep,  and  be  our  witnesses ! — 
Unwisdoming  lucre  !  who  shall  number  thy 
victims  ?    Ah  !  I  envy  ye  not !" 

With  this  rather  pungent  morceau,  kind 
reader,  we  take  our  leave  of  you,  provided 
you  have  not  already  left  us,  in  which  case 
any  leave-taking  on  our  part  would  be  quite 
superfluous. 


€6 


IPAH^   A  ¥®TDrSo^^' 


BY    ERASMUS    PJBRRY. 


PKAIRIES  fair,  ye've  won  my  heart — 
Loth  am  I  with  you  to  part ; 
Where's  your  like  the  wide  world  through  ? 
Solemn  prairies,  faix  h  vous. 


Mississippi,  turbid  river, 
Flowing  on  forever,  ever ! 
Bear  me  to  the  ocean  blue ; 
Mighty  river,  paix  d.  vous. 


Traveler  o'er  these  wide  domains, 
Verdure  of  these  fruitful  plains. 
Darkling  stream,  and  lake  of  blue, 
Ever,  ever,  paix  ^  rout. 

Red  man !  for  thy  fathers'  graves 
Searching  'mid  these  grassy  waves — 
Graves,  nor  home,  no  more  thou'lt  view  : 
Child  of  nature,  faix  ii  vous. 

*  Peack  to  too.— These  lines  were  written  on  returning  home,  after  four  years'  absence  on  the  "Western 
Prairies. 


To  my  far  New  England  home, 
While  I  tarried,  death  hath  come  ; 
Death  will  not  his  work  undo — 
Sister,  brother,  jiaix  it  vous. 

Lo!  New  England,  soon  I  greet  thee  ; 
Dearest  mother,  soon  I  meet  thee  ; 
Hearts  I  leave  afar,  adieu — 
God  be  with  you,  jiaix  Sl  vous. 


STRAY     THOUGHTS. 


147 


sirmAY  iriEi(D¥©iEiiPS. 


BY    ANNA    M.     HEFFEENAN. 


"We  dream  not  of  love's  might 
Till  death  has  robed,  with  soft  and  solemn  light. 
The  image  we  enshrine.    Before  that  hour 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  lis  laid." 

It  was  New- Year's  night,  and  a  large  party 
were  assembled  in  a  magnificent  mansion  in 
the  upper  part  of  Broadway. 

The  air  without  was  filled  with  frost  and 
enow;  and,  as  it  sighed  mournfully  through 
their  desolate  dwellings,  the  children  of  poverty 
shivered  in  its  cold  blast. 

But  within  were  soft  carpets,  and  the  win- 
dows covered  with  thick  damask  curtains,  that 
the  cheek  of  beauty  might  not  be  chilled. 
Bright  forms,  radiant  in  lovehness,  were  there, 
who,  in  the  dance  and  song,  remembered  not 
that  pain  and  hunger  and  weariness  were  witli- 
out,  and  those  strains  of  joy  and  gladness,  to 
the  poor  and  lonely,  could  find  no  echo  in  their 
hearts. 

Opposite  this  lofty  dweUing  was  one  of  hum- 
ble appearance ;  no  lights  gleamed  from  its 
windows,  save  in  one  lonely  chamber,  where  a 
mother  watched  beside  her  dying  child. 

Long  had  she  hung  over  him  in  anguish  un- 
utterable. Hope  and  fear  alternately  cheering 
and  filling  her  heart  with  despair.  Alas  !  the 
tide  of  life  was  ebbing  fast ;  each  moment  his 
moans  grew  feebler  and  his  breath  more  slow. 

"  Father  in  heaven  !"  she  cried  ;  "  if  such  is 
thy  will,  spare  him  to  me — my  child,  my  only 
one.  I  am  forsaken  by  all  on  earth  ;  leave  me 
not  in  darkness  ;  spare  me  the  only  joy  my  des- 
olate life  hath  known,  or  take  me  with  him." 

It  might  not  be  ;  and  in  her  anguish  she  has 
taken  and  pressed  him  to  her  throbbing  heart, 
as  though  she  would  hold  him  there  for  ever. 
His  little  arms  were  entwined  around  her  neck, 
while  her  tears  and  kisses  were  rained  on  the 
cold  brow,  where  the  dews  of  death  were  fast 
gathering.  How  drearily  passed  the  hours  of 
that  long  night.  How  mournful  the  prayers 
for  strength,  that  broke  the  hushed  stillness  of 
of  the  chamber  of  death. 

Yet  the  vail  of  sorrow  that  enshrouded  her 


soul  was  woven  by  the  hand  of  mercy ;  and, 
could  that  stricken  mother  have  raised  it,  she 
would  have  seen  revealed  the  great  mystery  of 
life,  and  understood  why  it  is  decreed  by  the 
Unfathomable,  that  sin  and  suffering  should  be ; 
and,  with  joy  in  her  heart  and  praise  on  her 
lips,  she  would  have  resigned  her  loved  one  into 
the  care  of  the  blessed  spirits  who  hovered 
round  to  bear  him  to  the  spirit-land.  She  shud- 
dered ;  for  strains  of  soft  music  and  tlie  soimd 
of  merry  voices,  as  if  in  mocker}'  of  her  woe, 
reached  her  desolate  ear.  Life  and  deatli  so 
near !  The  world  and  its  charms  passing 
away  for  ever  from  the  eye  of  the  dying,  and 
life  presenting  its  most  inviting  aspect  to  the 
gay  and  thoughtless. 

Thus  joy  and  sorrow,  the  living  and  the  dead, 
all  commingled  together. 

"Mother!  dear  mother!"  feebly  exclaimed 
the  dying  boy ;  "  I  cannot  longer  stay.  Around 
me  are  glorious  beings  with  sunny  wings,  who 
call  me  to  go  with  them.  Ah !  they  smile,  and 
speak  in  soft,  low  tones  ;  and  but  now  it  seem- 
ed I  was  with  them,  far  above  the  bright  blue 
sky  in  heaven,  dear  mother.  But  I  heard  you 
mourn  and  you  weep  for  your  boy  to  return ; 
and,  in  answer  to  your  prayers,  my  happiness 
was  changed  to  pain  and  suffering.  Stay  me 
not  now.  But  a  little  while  shall  pass,  ere  I 
return  again  for  you,  and  my  vAogs  shall  bear 
us  to  yon  bright  home,  where  you  will  sorrow 
no  more." 

It  was  as  if  an  angel  had  spoken,  and  the 
mother  knelt,  in  holy  awe,  beside  her  dying 
child,  and  murmured,  "  Father,  thy  will  be 
done.  He  is  not  mine,  but  thine ;  pure  and 
unstained,  I  return  him  to  thee."  Blessed  are 
the  early  called.  Her  arm  was  around  him  ; 
her  cheek  pressed  close  to  his ;  and  still  he 
smiled  so  sweetly,  and  his  parting  breath  yet 
Ungered  on  her  brow,  even  after  his  spirit  had 
escaped  from  her  embrace  of  love. 

Ah !  who  can  describe  the  loneliness  and 
utter  desolation  that  fills  our  hearts,  when  one 
we  have  fondly  and  purely  loved,  whose  exist- 
ence has  become  necessary  to  our  own,  is  thus 


148 


STRAY    THOUGHTS. 


suddenly  snatched  away,  and  the  voice  that  has 
ever  breathed  in  our  cars  the  endearing  tones  of 
affection  is  hushed  for  ever,  and  he,  who  was 
once  our  hope  and  pride,  is  left  to  moulder  in 
tlie  dark  grave.  There  is  something  terrible 
and  humiliating  in  the  thought,  as  we  learn 
how  slight  and  frail  a  thing  is  human  love — 
when  it  seems  most  bright — thus  hovering  on 
the  verge  of  extinction.  How  strange  it  is, 
that  though  fabric  after  fabric  of  happiness  thus 
crumbles  into  dust,  we  still  eagerly  seek  to 
raise  up  ties  that  must  be  sundered,  and  allow 
objects  to  enter  the  heart  and  claim  sole  domin- 
ion there,  when  we  know  not  but  at  the  mo- 
ment that  seems  to  us  most  heavenly,  an  un- 
seen destiny  is  laying  the  foundation  for  future 
misery  and  unavailing  tears. 

The  absent  may  return.  Anger  and  old  dif- 
ferences can  be  explained  away.  Time  will 
restore  tlie  things  of  earth.  In  life  there  is 
hope ;  but  the  dead  return  not  to  us  again. 
They  are  deaf  to  our  cries  and  supplications : 
they  heed  not  our  tears. 

"  Thou  hast  all  times  and  seasons  for  thine 
own,  oh  death !" 

It  is  thus,  when  humbled  by  grief,  that  hu- 
man vanity  receives  her  severest  blow ;  and 
we  then  truly  learn  our  own  insignificance. 
Who  is  there  that,  at  some  time  of  their  life, 
has  not  experienced  moments  of  deep  and  fear- 
ful conflict,  when  tlie  dark  shadows  of  affliction 
fell  heavily  on  their  souls,  and  past  happiness 
seemed  but  a  dream,  that  had  vanished  for 
ever,  as  though  they  "  sorrowed  without  hope  ?" 
At  such  times,  selfish  in  our  grief,  we  wonder 
that  others  can  smile,  while  we  are  sad  ;  that 
our  friends  can  indulge  in  pursuits  for  which 
we  have  lost  an  interest ;  and,  ofttimes,  in  the 
world's  turmoil  and  exciting  scenes,  seek  for 
oblivion  of  our  own  sad  thoughts.  We,  too, 
would  fain  taste  the  "  waters  of  forgetfulness." 
But  in  the  gay  and  apparently  thoughtless,  that 
we  often  meet,  could  we  but  raise  the  vail  thus 
assumed,  we  would  find  tliat  the  most  sensitive 
heart  shrinks  from  intruding  its  sorrows,  when 
it  would  only  meet  with  repulse  and  coldness  in 
return  ;  and  thus  society  combines  in  assisting 
each  mutually  to  deceive  the  other,  since  all 
must  assume  a  character  different  from  the  one 
they  really  possess. 

It  is  not  strange,  that  in  our  moments  of  grief 
and  desolation,  we  almost  feel  as  if  our  afllic- 
tions  call  for  some  sympathy  in  nature's  face  ; 
and  yet  tlie  sun  shines  as  brightly,  and  tlio  sky 
as  clear  as  ever :  only  we  have  changed,  only 


o'er  the  mourner's  soul  the  darkness  of  aneclij)se 
has  passed. 

But,  blessed  be  God  for  the  assurance ! 
though  we  are  separated  for  a  time  from  those 
we  have  so  truly  loved,  yet  they  will  share  with 
us  an  eternity  of  happiness,  even  for  ever  and 
ever;  for  surely,  if  the  soul  is  immortal, the  de- 
sires that  constitute  its  being  must  be  immortal 
also.  And,  oh !  inexpressibly  sweet  is  the 
boon  of  eternal  life,  since  it  unites  us  again 
with  those  who  have  gone  before,  and  we  feel 
no  more  strangers  to  the  spirit-world  ;  and  leads 
us  to  welcome  the  "  night"  that  will  close  all 
sorrows  and  hush  all  pains,  to  awaken  on  a 
bright  and  glorious  morn ;  to  find  the  king  of 
terrors  divested  of  the  gloomy  attributes  with 
which  we  have  been  wont  to  regard  him,  and 
behold  in  our  deliverer  from  the  bondage  of 
earth  the  most  glorious  and  beautiful  of  heav- 
en's seraphs. 

Thus  we  may  feel  the  purifying  influence  of 
grief,  that  softens  and  harmonizes  our  nature, 
and  memory  becomes  a  blessing,  recalling  each 
loved  remembrance  to  our  stricken  hearts  ;  and 
though  it  proves  the  vanity  of  making  to  our- 
selves earthly  idols,  it  yet  supplies  us  with 
joys  over  which  cold  skepticism  has  no  power, 
forms  of  matchless  beauty,  ever  winning  and 
smiling,  who  tlirong  our  dreams  and  waking 
hours,  wearing  the  remembered  faces  of  the 
buried  dead.  No  coldness  can  estrange  such 
relationship,  as  often  mars  the  dearest  friendship 
of  earthly  friends,  and  visions  though  ye  be,  yet 
the  influence  of  the  cold,  heartless  world  may 
not  dispel  them. 

Silent  forms  of  the  past,  blessed  children  of 
better  hours — companions  of  one's  solitude,  may 
ye  always  remain  as  ye  are,  links  between  the 
living  and  the  dead.  We  feel  that  they  must 
be  near,  that  they  sympathize  in  our  cares  and 
sorrows.  To  them  our  purer,  holier  thoughts 
are  turned.  For  a  time,  the  soul  soars  abo\-e 
earthly  things,  and  we  feel  at  such  moments 
that  earth  is  not  our  abiding-place,  and  filled 
with  peace  unspeakable,  we  learn  to  look  with 
kinder,  better  feelings  on  our  fellow-beings  on 
whose  lot,  as  our's,  is  written  to  suffer  and 
change. 

Time  is  a  paltry  thing ;  days,  and  weeks,  and 
years  ;  but  the  mile-stones  tliat  mark  eternity  : 
one  glance  through  tlie  vista  of  the  past,  and 
wo  shudder  to  think  how  far  we  have  advanced 
to  the  land  from  whence  none  returns.  Yet  a 
little  while,  and  our  places  will  know  us  no  more. 

The  unquiet  passions  that  have  made  our 


INVOCATION  TO    PEACE.                                              149 

being's  strife,  and  the  throbbing  heart,  will  alike   /  and  song  in  our  dwellings  will  again  pour  forth 

be  stilled  in  the  slumber  tliat  on  earth  knows  no   <  their  sweetest  strains.     The  breath  of  spring 

waking.                                                                   |  will  sweep  over  our  graves,  laden  with  the  in- 

Our  funeral  will  wind  on  its  way ;  the  last  >  cense  of  sweet  flowers  ;  but  the  songs  of  its 

look  will  be  taken  and  the  last  prayer  said,   s  birds  and   the  rush  of  its  waters  will  not  be 

Our  friends  will  return  to  their  homes,  and  <  heard  in  the    cold,  silent  cities  of  the  dead, 

we  shall  be  left  behind  to  the  cold  embrace  of  >  where 

the  tomb,  to    become  food  for  the  loathsome   >  "Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side; 

worm — humilating  thought !  And  it  may  be  for   I  Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied." 

a  time,  our  remembrance  will  awaken  grief;  <  And  thus,  oh  death !  thou  boldest  all  in  com- 

but  the  duties  of  Ufe,  its  toils  and  cares,  will   )  panionship. 

creep  in  ;  new  friends  will  usurp  our  places,   \  Truly,  oh  God !  the  dead  man's  only  life  is 

the  eve  of  the  moilmer  will  be  dried,  and  music  found  in  thee. 


irH¥(D(SA^ir(DH   IT©   IPISASIg. 

"  Nation  shall  not  lift  up  sword  against  nation,  neither  shall  they  learn  war  any  more." — JsAiABt  ii.  4. 

Hail  !  reign  of  peace  !  we  welcome  thine  appearing. 

To  still  time's  tumults  in  a  long  repose  ; 
Wave  wide  the  sceptre  which  thy  hand  is  bearing, 

Till  earth's  drear  deserts  "blossom  as  the  rose." 

Long  hath  the  sword  gleamed  in  the  grasp  of  ages — 

The  fiercest  symbol  of  a  brutish  power  ; 
And  all  man's  record,  on  its  storied  pages, 

Hath  war's  deep  bloodstains,  even  to  this  hour. 

From  court  and  cabinet,  from  town  and  village, 

From  vast  cathedral  and  the  cloistered  cell. 
Earth's  ear  hath  caught  the  din  and  strife  of  pillage, 

Uttering  o'er  human  hopes  a  wild  death-knell. 

How  hath  it  preyed  upon  sweet  home's  affections  ! 

How  hath  it  quenched  the  hght  of  beauty's  eye  ! 
How  hath  it  stung  strong  hearts  with  dread  reflections  ! 

And  dashed  out  bow-tints  from  life's  hopeful  sky  ! 

Grod's  footstool  it  hath  curtained  round  with  sadness, 

And  hid  His  throne  of  mercy  from  our  prayer ; 
Resigned  His  image  to  the  passions'  madness. 

And  chained  our  strugglings  to  a  fixed  despair. 

How  hath  it  drowned  the  music  of  the  ocean ! 

And  hurled  Ufe's  gladness  'neath  the  cold,  dark  wave ; 
Dashed  kingdoms  to  the  dust  in  wild  commotion, 

And  'whelmed  proud  nations  in  one  gory  grave  ! 


150 


THE    GRAVE-STONE. 


Earth,  air,  and  sea,  its  strange,  dark  deeds  are  telling. 
And  Heaven  hath  sighed  them  to  the  circling  spheres ; 

Each  age  of  time  the  doleful  strain  is  swelling — 
Its  echoes  break  amid  eternal  years. 

O !  haste,  blest  season,  seen  through  distant  ages, 

In  holy  vision,  by  the  Prophet's  eye  ; 
Fulfil  the  golden  dreams  of  sleeping  sages. 

And  let  earth  symbolize  the  world  on  high. 

Hash  its  wild  jargon  with  thine  angel  voices ; 

Touch  flinty  hearts,  as  with  a  Moses'  rod  ; 
Baptize  the  world  with  love,  till  it  rejoices, 

like  blessed  Eden,  in  the  smile  of  God. 

Plume  with  high  purposes  the  human  spirit, 
With  holy  thoughts  the  heart  of  nations  fill, 

A  home  on  high  let  all  our  hopes  inherit, 
And  to  the  surging  passions  say,  Be  still. 

All  bloodless  be  thy  marches  on  to  glory, 

"  Welcoms  !"  shall  greet  thee  from  a  thousand  tongues, 
Angels  shall  bear  aloft  thy  joyous  story, 

And  chant  thy  triumphs  in  their  ceaseless  songs 


f  EH   (^mA¥ll-^f (DMIg, 


By    CLEMENT. 


"Mbfortuhes,  they  say,  never  come  single," 
and  it  sometimes  appears  as  if  the  bark  of  one's 
life  entered  upon  a  succession  of  storms,  each 
adding  terror  and  peril  to  the  other.  The  ways 
of  Heaven  are  inscrutable,  and  it  sometimes 
puzzles  even  faith  itself  to  reconcile  the  deal- 
ings of  Providence.  I  have  seen  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman,  with  a  spirit  all  kindness  and 
a  heart  all  love — full  of  sympathy  for  the  dis- 
tressed— arrested  on  the  very  threshold  of  life 
and  of  happiness,  and,  after  years  of  acute  suf- 
fering, dismissed  in  bodily  torture  to  tlie  other 
world.  She  seemed  to  need  no  chastening — 
mild  and  submissive  and  gentle,  she  appeared 
all  that  one  could  desire  in  a  human  character. 
Yet,  immediately  after  her  marriapc,  she  was 
proetrated  by  sickness,  and,  for  fifteen  years, 
was  never  without  suffering.  When  the  blow 
first  fell,  she  bowed  meekly  to  it,  and,  without 


a  word  of  complaint,  said  that  it  was  all  right, 
for  her  Father's  hand  held  the  rod.  But  that 
rod,  though  never  murmured  against,  was  never 
removed  until  the  waters  of  the  dark  valley 
closed  over  the  crushed  form.  Such  dispensa- 
tions are  hard  to  understand  now,  though  at 
last  they  will  not  only  appear  just  and  wise, 
but  claim  our  love  and  gratitude. 

This  incident  was  recalled  to  my  mind  while 
standing,  the  other  day,  in  the  grave-yard  of 

the  little  town  of  M .    It  was  just  at 

evening,  and  the  golden  sunlight  was  rolled 
like  a  sea  through  the  quiet  valley  that  slum- 
bered in  the  lap  of  the  hills.  The  tall  elms 
stood  still :  not  even  a  leaf  quivered,  as  this 
sunset  flood  bathed  their  green  crowns  in  its 
mellow  hue,  and  the  eastern  mountains  seemed 
robed  for  the  gala-day  of  Creation.  The  river 
Uiat  wound  past  flung  back  the  gorgeous  light 


THE    GRAVE-STONE. 


151 


wherever  the  green  willows  that  fringed  its 
banks  would  let  it  down,  and  all  was  beautiful 
as  the  smile  of  heaven.  Amid  this  luxuriant 
scene,  I  stood  for  a  while  enchanted,  and  was 
recalled  from  its  beauty  only  by  a  small  broken 
marble  shaft  at  my  feet,  surmounting  two  di- 
minutive graves.  They  were  the  graves  of 
two  children,  who  had  doubtless  been  buried 
together,  and  the  desolate  parents  had  reared 
this  broken  shaft — a  memorial,  at  once,  of  the 
early  fate  of  the  sleepers  and  of  their  own 
ruined  happiness.  On  inquiry,  I  found  they 
were  the  graves  of  tlie   chHdren  of  my  old 

friend,  S H .     What !  I  exclaimed  to 

myself;  is  the  hand  of  fate  so  inexorable  ?  Is 
there  no  rest  for  her  this  side  of  the  final  rest  ? 

Susan  H r  I  had  known  for  a  great  many 

years  ;  but  had  lost  sight  of  her  at  inter\'als,  as 
I  became  a  wanderer  over  the  earth.  In  youth 
she  lived  in  opulence.  Her  father  was  a 
wealthy  man,  and  spared  no  expense  to  render 
his  daughter  all  that  a  fond  parent  could  wish. 
She  grew  up  in  beauty,  and,  like  all  others,  her 
heart  soon  became  entangled  in  the  meshes  of 
love.  But  he  who  had  won  her  heart  was 
poor ;  and  hence  his  suit  was  rejected  by  the 
father.  It  is  idle  to  follow  the  course  of  their 
love — to  speak  of  its  changes,  disappoiutments, 
hopes,  and  fears.  Youthful  hearts  love  wildly, 
and  cannot  listen  to  the  claims  of  avarice — 
scarcely  to  the  voice  of  judgment. 

After  many  vows  and  tears,  young  Henry 
left  the  place,  and  came  to  New  York  to  seek 
his  fortune.  A  relative  finally  obtained  a  place 
for  him  in  the  West  Indies,  where  there  was 
every  prospect  of  his  soon  acquiring  a  fortune. 
Before  he  embarked,  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
his  betrothed,  telling  her  of  his  plans  and  des- 
tination, and  naming  the  ship  in  which  he  was 
to  embark.  Every  line  breathed  hope,  for  the 
weight  that  had  lain  so  long  upon  his  heart  had 
been  suddenly  hfted,  and  left  him,  feeling  like  a 
man  who  could  dare  and  do  "  all  that  becomes 
a  man." 

He  set  sail  in  one  of  the  small  vessels  that 
trade  between  New  York  and  Havana ;  and, 
with  a  fair  wind  and  smooth  sea,  soon  com- 
pleted half  the  voyage.  But  as  they  approach- 
ed the  tropics,  a  change  came  over  tlieir  pros- 
pects. 

One  night,  as  the  ship  lay  idly  rolling  on  the 
heavy  swell,  just  as  it  had  been  swin^ng  to 
and  fro  for  two  days,  becalmed,  there  appeared 
in  the  southern  horizon  every  indication  of  a 
hurricane.    The  caj^n  noticed  it,  and,  before 


dark,  bad  every  thing  made  tight — ^the  sails 
furled,  and  a  sharp  look-out  kept  by  the  watch. 
He  could  not  sleep,  himself,  but  kept  pacing 
the  deck — now  watching  the  sky,  that  had  sud- 
denly put  on  sackcloth,  and  now  listening  to 
the  heavy  moan  of  the  sea.  that  seemed  laboring 
with  some  direful  dream.  The  ship  stood  still 
in  the  darkness — ^rose  when  the  long  swell  ca- 
reened it  over,  making  the  cordage  rattle  and 
the  masts  creak.  At  length  the  sea  began  to 
move,  though  apparently  stirred  by  no  wind. 
There  seemed  some  invisible  agency  at  work, 
torturing  the  waves  into  foam  by  apprehensions 
of  coming  woe.  Just  before  midnight,  a  low 
humming  sound  was  heard  in  the  distance,  fol- 
lowed by  a  loud  and  steady  roar,  that  swelled 
rapidly  into  the  full-voiced  thunder  ;  and  then 
the  shock  came.  In  a  moment,  all  was  uproar 
and  confusion  on  board  the  ship.  She  seemed 
to  hft  before  the  tornado,  and  fly,  like  a  fright- 
ened thing,  over  the  boiling  sea. 

There  was  no  longer  any  sky,  or  sea,  or 
clouds :  all  were  mingled  together,  and  chaos 
and  night  and  the  tornado  had  it  aU  to  them- 
selves. The  wind  shrieked  through  the  rig- 
ging, as  if  a  score  of  fiends  were  shouting  defi- 
ance to  the  passing  storm ;  and  every  timber 
creaked  and  groaned,  as  a  sort  of  interlude  to 
the  dismal  howl  around  it.  Then  there  came 
a  pause  as  sudden  as  the  shock.  It  was,  how- 
ever, but  for  a  moment ;  the  tempest,  having 
gathered  again  its  energies,  burst  with  redou- 
bled fury  over  the  shrinking  vessel.  The  sea, 
at  first,  could  not  make  into  waves — the  wind 
pressed  with  such  power  on  its  breast ;  but  the 
spray  was  carried  in  a  blinding  shower  through 
the  air.  All  that  night  the  hurricane  raged  ; 
and,  when  the  black  morning  dawned,  the  sea 
presented  a  frightful  appearance.  It  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  churned  by  enormous  enginery, 
rather  than  smitten  by  the  wind.  At  last,  the 
waves  began  to  rise.  The  captain,  who  had 
hoped  that  the  tempest  would  break  before  a 
heavy  sea  was  made,  now  began  to  look  anx- 
ious and  doubtful.  His  ship  became  unman- 
ageable, and  drove  heavily  before  the  blast. 
He  could  not  carry  a  rag  of  canvas,  for  the 
naked  masts  barely  withstood  tlie  shock.  Be- 
fore night,  a  tremendous  sea  was  rolling.  The 
helpless  vessel  went  staggering  and  floundering 
through  the  billows,  which,  ever  and  anon,  fell 
with  the  sound  of  thunder  on  her  shivering  deck, 
and  strove  manfully  to  withstand  the  tempest. 
— At  length  there  came  one  wave,  wliich  broke 
,   directly  on  the  ship.     A  sudden  crash — a  sharp 


152 


TflE    GRAVE-STONE. 


cry  succeeded,  and  when  tlie  vessel  lifted  again 
from  the  mass  of  waters,  every  mast  had  been 
swept  from  the  deck,  and  she  lay  a  mere  log  in 
the  deep.  Tliis  was  the  last  effort  of  the  hur- 
ricane, but  it  proved  fatal  to  Honry.  lie  had 
staid  below,  listening  to  the  crash  and  roar 
without  and  above,  till  he  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  He  was  the  only  passenger  on  board, 
and  the  solitude  becoming  more  frightfnl  to  him 
than  the  aspect  of  the  sea,  he  came  on  deck,  and 
lashed  himself  fast,  so  as  not  to  be  carried  away 
by  the  waves.  But  in  that  last  crash  one  of  the 
falling  timbers  struck  him  down,  wounding  him 
dreadfully.  He  was  carried  below,  and  then 
every  effort  made  to  save  the  ship.  It  was  of 
no  avail :  her  present  condition,  added  to  her  pre- 
vious strain,  soon  caused  her  to  leak  badiy,  and 
by  morning  the  pumps  were  unable  to  keep  the 
water  from  gaining,  and  before  the  sea  was 
down,  sufficient  to  launch  a  boat,  she  was  fast 
sinking.  At  length,  however,  the  boat  was  cast 
off,  and  shoved  away  upon  the  waste  of  waters. 
In  the  bottom  lay  the  helj^ess,  mangled  form  of 
Henry.  For  three  days  they  were  at  sea  in  an 
open  boat,  but  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  a 
vessel  was  descried  approaching  them.  The  suc- 
cor came  too  late,  however,  for  the  wounded  man. 
His  sufferings  and  exposure  tc^ether  proved  too 
much  for  him,  and  that  night  he  died.  Before 
next  night  his  form  was  descending  the  depths 
of  the  ocean  Uke  a  flash  of  light,  and  a  world 
of  waters  went  rushing  over  him. 

When  the  news  of  the  death  of  her  lover 

reached  Susan  H ,  she  was  crushed  to  the 

earth.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  utter 
despair  that  seized  her  heart — tlie  wild  passion 
tossings  that  threatened  to  upset  her  reason,  or 
the  gasping  prayer  for  help  that  burst  convul- 
sively from  her  bosom.  He  who  has  once  seen 
a  young  heart  crushed  by  one  fell  blow,  knows 
what  a  terrific  spectacle  it  is.  You  do  not  see 
the  dazzling  lightning,  nor  hear  the  crash  of 
the  thunderbolt — you  know  of  its  presence  and 
power  only  by  the  smitten  and  shattered  trunk. 

"  Time  heals  all  things,"  and  though  this  may 
not  be  true,  it  certainly  deadens  all  sorrow. 

Susan  H rallied  from  the  shock,  but  was 

changed  in  all  her  character.  From  bright  and 
sunny  girlhood,  she  was  transformed  into  a 
grave  and  thoughtful  woman.  Such  terrible 
experiences  mature  one  fast. 

This  misfortune  was  soon  followed  by  an- 
other— her  father  died,  and,  to  the  astonishment 
of  all,  pcnnilcM.  Unsuccessful  speculations 
had  ruined  him,  and  his  wife  and  daughter  were 


left  to  their  own  resources.     Years  passed  on, 

and  I  visited  the  village  of  M with  an  old 

friend.  I  had  lost  all  track  of  Susan.  Judge  of 
my  astonishment  when  I  found  her  in  this  little 
village,  supporting  herself  and  mother  by  her 
needle.  It  was  a  dreadful  struggle  to  one  of 
her  mind,  accomplishments,  and  eariy  affluence, 
to  sulxnit  to  the  little  annoyances  and  drudgery 
of  such  a  li  fe.  But  her  naturally  strong  charac- 
ter triumphed  over  her  feelings,  and  I  found 
her  quite  cheerful. 

Soon  after  I  left  the  place,  I  learned  she  was 
about  to  be  married  to  a  man  in  moderate  cir- 
cumstances, but  of  excellent  character.  Seven- 
teen years  had  passed  since  she — ^then  a  girl  of 
eighteen — had  buried  her  hopes  and  love  with 
her  Henry,  and  now,  a  staid  woman,  she  ac- 
cepted the  hand  of  another.  But  first  she  told 
him  her  history,  and  that  she  never  could  love 
him  as  she  did  the  one  she  had  lost.  He  had 
her  wannest  esteem  and  friendship,  but  her  love 
had  perished  long  ago.  He  said  he  asked  for 
no  more,  and  would  trust  to  time  and  circum- 
stances. 

Several  years'  residence  in  a  foreign  country 
again  caused  me  to  lose  the  history  of  Susan, 
and  I  heard  no  more  of  her  till  I  was  told  that 
this  broken  marble  shaft  stood  over  the  grave 
of  her  two  and  only  children.  Poor  Susan  !  she 
seemed  to  rally  from  one  blow,  only  to  be  smit- 
ten by  another.  Her  two  little  boys,  her  pride 
and  her  comfort,  were  slain  at  her  side  together 
— only  one  day  divided  their  deaths.  It  was 
with  a  sad  heart  I  called  to  see  her,  and  my 
sorrow  was  not  abated  when  I  saw  what  rav- 
ages grief  had  made  with  her  once  beautiful 
form  and  face.  She  was  thin  and  care-worn, 
and  twenty  years  seemed  to  have  been  added 
to  hef  life.  As  she  met  me,  one  of  her  bright 
smiles  illumined  her  face,  and  she  greeted  me 
with  the  cordiality  of  an  old  friend.  In  a  mo- 
ment, however,  her  countenance  changed,  and 
she  began  to  speak  of  herself.  A  flood  of  tears 
checked  her,  and  she  exclaimed,  "  I  can't  talk 
about  it — they  were  my  beautiful  boys — my 
only  joy,  and  both,  both  gone !  Oh,  it  has  al- 
most killed  me — ^but  I  know  it  is  right — it  is 
all  right !"  After  conversing  with  me  awhile, 
she  went  for  their  portraits,  taken  after  their 
death.  During  her  absence  from  the  room,  I 
took  up  a  book,  lying  upon  the  table,  and  there 
dropped  from  it  the  following  poem,  which  I 
bogged  of  her.  It  shows  how  her  Uioughts  had 
dwelt  upon  her  boys,  and  her  heart  pined  for 
the  better  land.    Life  had  loet  its  attraction, 


P»mfd  by  .1  '."'.Chnpman 


Kn^^rawd  by  Wrldi  kWaJter 


'■'C.  HIM©.   <Sll.i£iiL;r^jl£IR< 


■int ; 


hange,  to  dwell  among  tiiine 


iay. 


Then  the  i:  .  !rd>*ft2. 


,-«.s^^ 


THE  YOUNG  GLEANER. 


153 


and  tliis  last  blow  had  prostrated  her   ener- 
gies. 

"  There  breaks  upon  the  sorrow's  evening  gloom 

A  trembling  Instre  from  beyond  the  tomb." — W.  G.  C. 

My  mind  was  filled  with  mournful  images  ; 
The  green  tree  reft  of  branches— and  decay 
Sapping  its  very  roots — dirge-like  music 
Amid  the  ruin'd  halls  whence  life  had  fled — 
The  silent,  sculptured  image  of  the  dead 
Amongst  the  lining,  joyous  ones  of  earth ; 
All  seemed  the  emblems  of  my  lonely  heart, 
And  on  the  winds  I  pom-'d  my  plaintive  lay. 

Why  should  I  linger — 
Have  they  not  gone,  my  beautiful,  my  own  ? 
They  of  the  beaming  eye  and  joyous  tone  ? 
Doth  the  rose  flourish  when  the  young  buds  die, 
And  on  tlie  ground  the  scattered  leaflets  lie  ? 
Doth  the  dove  linger,  when  from  her  nest 
The  young  have  flown  she  warm'd  with  her 

own  breast  ? 
Even  thus  with  me:    my  fainting  soul  doth 

yearn 
For    that    calm    resting-place,    whence    none 

return. 
I  hear  their  voices,  and  they  seem  to  say, 
(Wooing  with  loving  tone,)  Oh,  Mother  !  why 

delay? — 


Then  upon  the  breeze 
Came  a  low  sound,  most  sweet  and  clear, 
As,  trumpet-toned,  it  fell  upon  my  ear. 
Like  angel's  song,  'twas  from  the  better  land. 
Where  robed  in  purity  my  loved  ones  stand. 

"  Cease  thy  complaint ; 
Even  as  by  fire  the  gold  is  tried, 
So  shalt  thou  pass  this  ordeal  purified ; 
And  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  there  shall  arise 
Unto  the  I^ord  a  holier  sacrifice 
Than  e'er  in  other  days  ye  offer'd  him 
Before  whose  brightness  thy  lost  love    grows 

dim; 
And  the  bruised  spirit  yield  a  sweeter  tone 
Than  to  the  young  heart's  melody  was  known : 
And  beams  more  radiant  than  sunset  dyes 
Or  moonbeams  soft  of  summer  evening  skies, 
Illume  thy  pathway  for  the  coming  years, 
Soften  thy  sorrow,  dry  the  falling  tears. 
And  guide  thee,  when  a  few  more  suns  have 

flown. 
From  time's  sad  change,  to  dwell  among  thine 

own." 

Heaven  shield  her  from  farther  misfortunes, 
and  grant  her  her  lost  treasures  back  again  in 
a  better  world  ! 


IPH®  YeiOrSJ^   ©ILflgAHISK. 


BY  FHANCIS  O.  WOODWOETH. 


Thus  a  gleaner  was  repining, 
As  she  sat  her  down  to  rest. 

Summer's  sun  above  her  shining, 

Winter  lowering  in  her  breast: — 

"  Why  am  I  so  poor  and  lonely. 
In  a  world  so  full  of  joy  ? 

Must  I  then,  a  menial  only. 

Ever  thus  my  life  employ — 

"  Forced  to  toil  from  morn  till  even, 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 

Scorned  by  men,  unloved  by  heaven, 
For  one  meagre  sheaf  of  grain  ! 

"  Yet  with  such  a  life  before  me. 
Oft  my  mother  used  to  say, 


'  Grod  is  kind,  and  angels  o'er  thee 

Watchers  are  by  night  and  day.' " 

Heard  she  then,  that  weary  maiden, 

Words  that  seem'dfrom  heav'n  address'd: 

"  Come  to  me — though  heavy  laden, 
I  will  give  thy  spirit  rest." 

Then  the  maiden's  toil  grew  lighter, 
Ceased  for  aye  her  tears  to  flow ; 

Then  her  sunny  face  beamed  brighter, 
For  it  caught  a  heavenly  glow. 

Toils  she  now  from  morn  till  even. 

In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Blest  to  be  beloved  of  Heaven, 

T^wugh  a  gleaner  'mid  the  grain. 


154 


STANZAS. 


Thou  art  gone  home  !  Oh  !  early  crowned  and  blest !— Mrs.  Hemans. 


'Tis  sad  amid  a  world  of  bloom 

To  gaze  upon  thee  now, 
And  mark  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 

Upon  thy  gentle  brow. 

There  lingers  still  upon  thy  face 
The  smile  it  used  to  wear ; 

And  all  that  death  can  leave  of  grace, 
Is  sweetly  pictured  there. 

So  much  of  life  is  on  thy  brow. 
My  heart  could  almost  deem — 

That  thou  art  only  sleeping  now, 
And  smiling  in  thy  dream  ! 

Pale  roses  on  thy  bosom  sleep, 
And  violets  meek  and  fair, 


Like  sorrowing  love  have  come  to  weep 
Their  dewy  teacrdrops  there. 

Yet  hath  thine  heart,  so  cold  and  still, 
Once  borne  a  weight  of  woe  ; 

And  thou  hast  suffered  wrong,  and  ill, 
That  none  but  God  can  know. 

Thy  spirit's  harp-strings,  in  the  strife. 

Were  broken  all  too  soon  ! 
The  joyous  sun-light  of  thy  life — 

Was  dimmed  at  early  noon  ! 

Yet  when  thine  earthly  hopes  grew  dark, 

A  better  light  was  given  ; 
It  lead  thee  to  the  shelt'ring  ark — 

Thy  peaceful  home  in  heaven ! 


How  sweet  is  the  spring-time,  with  blossoms  and  leaves  ! 
How  sweet  is  the  summer,  with  fruitage  and  sheaves  ! 
And  its  clear  flowing  springs,  crystal  chalices,  whence 
You  may  drink  purest  waters  beside  the  farm-fence. 

At  mom,  when  the  sunshine  first  breaks  through  the  trees. 
When  the  dew-drops  are  glitt'ring  and  stirred  by  the  breeze, 
Hark!  the  notes  of  the  robins  and  thrushes  commence 
*Mid  the  green  waving  bushes  along  the  farm-fence. 

At  noon,  when  the  reaper  reposes  from  toil, 

Where  the  oak  throv/s  its  shade  on  the  smooth-shaven  soil, 

How  he  gazes,  delighted,  with  beauty-struck  sense 

On  the  landscape  that  circles  around  the  farm-fence. 

And  at  eve,  when  the  herd,  with  its  bare-footed  guard, 
Is  slowly  approaching  the  busy  barn-yard, 
How  ofl  have  I  gone,  and  with  idle  pretence, 
Sate  a  silent  spectator  upon  the  farm-fence. 

The  fleet-footed  squirrel  abandons  his  lair, 
And  nibbles  his  acorn  and  hazel-nut  there; 
The  lark  loves  the  meadow,  and  warily  thence 
Glances  up  at  the  ambush  behind  the  farm-fence. 

What  a  gay  time  is  boyhood!    Its  footsteps  are  seen 
By  the  brookside,  the  woodside,  all  still  and  serene; 
Ye  many-leaved  volumes,  away  with  you !   hence ! 
Let  me  wander  once  more  by  the  sunny  farm-fence. 


■  •  t        • 


VALLEY  OF  PRAJELAS. 


155 


'flSIg   YAlLILIgY  (DI?  IPmAi3rigILjA§, 


OPPOSITE    COL    DU    PI 


BT   J.    T.    HEADLET. 


The  glorious  and  successful  battle  of  Sala- 
bertrann  occurred  on  Saturday  night,  and  the 
next  (Sunday)  morning,  the  weary  but  vic- 
torious exiles  found  themselves  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain  of  Sei.  For  three  days  previous 
to  the  battle,  they  had  been  constantly  on  the 
march,  drinking  only  water  and  eating  scarcely 
anything,  and  hence,  at  the  close  of  the  en- 
gagement, felt  the  need  of  repose  and  food. 
But  the  routed  enemy  might  rally,  and  rein- 
forcements arrive  to  their  aid,  and  the  conquest, 
which  had  been  so  hardly  won,  \\Tested  from 
their  grasp ;  and  so,  guided  by  the  glorious 
moon,  they  slowly  began  the  ascent  of  the 
mountain.  All  night  long  they  toiled  up  the 
steep  acclivity,  though  numbers,  overcome  by 
fatigue,  kept  staggering  from  the  line  of  march, 
and  faUing  beside  the  rocks.  Several  were  thus 
lost ;  and  but  for  the  rear-guard,  which  kept 
rousing  the  sleepers,  as  the  moonbeams  re- 
vealed their  dark  forms  on  the  mountain-side, 
many  more  would  have  perished.  At  length 
the  morning  began  to  break  in  the  east ;  at  first 
a  cold  gray  light,  and  then  a  rosy  red,  bathing 
the  lofty  Alpine  peaks  in  the  same  ruddy  hue. 
Oh !  a  sunrise  in  the  Alps  is  glorious  beyond 
description.  How  often  I  have  stood  mute  and 
awe-struck  to  see  the  King  of  day  slowly  roll 
his  blazing  car  over  those  giant  forms  of  na- 
ture, and  look  with  his  regal  eye  on  the  deep 
valleys  sleeping  sweetly  below  !  White  snow- 
peaks  and  glaciers  above,  dark  fir-trees  mid- 
way, and  the  green  vales  beneath,  with  here 
and  there  an  awful  gorge  that  defies  the  day- 
light to  reach  its  abysses,  combine  to  form  a 
scene  that  baffles  description.  All  this  burst  on 
die  wanderers,  as  they  stood  and  leaned  on 
their  trusty  muskets,  and  gazed  below  them. 
Yet  the  beauty  and  splendor  unrolled  before 
them  were  forgotten  in  the  emotions  of  love 
and  joy,  that  found  utterance  in  mingled  tears 
and  smiles  and  loud  thanksgivings ;  for  as  the 


)  mists  rolled  slowly  upward,  and  the  sunbeams 
X  flooded  the  earth,  they  saw  the  mountains  that 
I  locked  in  their  native  homes.  The  hills  of  their 
boyhood — the  hills  their  fathers  had  trod — the 
peaks  that  had  ever  risen  before  them  in  their 
dreams  and  their  prayers,  and  towards  which 
their  eyes  had  been  constantly  strained  through 
their  long  perilous  march — the  hills  that  sur- 
rounded their  sanctuaries  and  their  altars,  at 
length  stood  clear  and  bold  against  the  distant 
horizon.  Amaud  stood  a  moment,  and  gazed 
with  swelling  heart  on  the  scene ;  and  then 
called  all  his  followers  about  him,  and  pointing 
to  their  native  fastnesses,  bade  them  bless  God 
for  having  brought  them,  as  by  a  miracle, 
through  so  many  perils,  and  now  permitted 
them  to  behold  again  the  hills  of  their  father- 
land. He  then  knelt  in  their  midst,  and  with 
uncovered  head  offered  up  a  solemn  thanks- 
giving to  God.  What  a  scene  they  presented 
on  that  mountain  top  in  the  early  sunrise  ! 
Those  men,  who  the  night  before  had  stormed 
so  wildly  through  the  battle,  were  now  bent  in 
humble  prayer  to  the  God  who  had  led  them 
safely  on. 

Their  first  view  of  their  native  hills  forms 
the  subject  of  the  present  engraving.  Just  as 
the  valley  appeared  to  them,  is  it  here  spread 
out  before  the  spectator.  They  are  looking  off' 
on  the  valley  of  Prajelas,  some  leaning  on  their 
muskets  in  silent  joy,  others  relating  to  their 
friends  the  prospect  before  them. 

But  though  they  had  arrived  at  the  borders 
of  their  own  land,  their  perils  were  not  over. 
Delays  were  dangerous ;  and  before  the  sun 
had  mounted  far  up  the  heavens,  their  long 
column  might  be  seen  winding  down  the  breast 
of  the  mountain,  directing  its  serpentine  course 
towards  the  valley  of  Prajelas.  Keeping  on 
their  march,  they  might  be  seen  in  the  after- 
noon commencing  the  ascent  of  the  Col  du  Pis. 
Suddenly,  a  company  of  dragoons  came  gal- 


156 


VALLEY  OF  PRAJELAS. 


loping  along  the  road  to  intercept  their  march  ; 
but  the  firm  presence  of  the  Waldenses  so 
awed  them,  that  they  retired  without  striiiiig  a 
blow.  The  next  day — Monday — they  came 
upon  a  body  of  troops,  drawn  up  in  battle  array, 
at  the  foot  of  the  Col  du  Pis,  ready  to  receive 
them.  Amaud  immediately  halted  his  feeble 
troops,  and,  gathering  them  around  him,  sol- 
emnly committed  them  and  their  cause  to  the 
God  who  had  thus  far  befriended  them.  He 
then  formed  his  band  into  three  columns,  and 
firmly  began  the  ascent  of  the  next  mountain. 
The  enemy,  seeing  the  determination  of  the 
Waldenses,  gave  way,  and  the  latter  marched 
triumphantly  forward. 

For  several  days  after,  they  met  with  more 
or  less  obstacles,  but  at  length  reached  the  val- 
ley of  Paoli,  where  still  stood  one  of  their  old 
churches.  There  the  first  public  worship  was 
performed  in  their  march.  A  chapel  which  the 
Catholics  had  added  to  tlie  church,  was  first  se^ 
on  fire,  and  all  their  religious  emblems  re- 
moved ;  and  then  Amaud  mounted  a  bench 
placed  in  the  door-way,  and  gave  forth  the  sev- 
enty-fourth Psalm  to  be  sung.  Together  those 
stem  warriors  chanted  that  touching  complaint 
of  David,  commencing,  "  O  God,  why  hast 
thou  cast  us  off"  for  ever  ?  why  doth  thine  an- 
ger smoke  against  the  sheep  of  thy  pasture  ? 
Remember  thy  congregation,  which  thou  hast 
purchased  of  old ;  the  rod  of  thine  inheritance, 
which  thou  hast  redeemed,"  &;c.  When  they 
came  to  the  passage,  "  O  let  not  the  oppressed 
return  ashamed :  let  the  poor  and  needy  praise 
thy  name.  Arise,  O  God,  plead  thine  own 
cause,"  many  an  eye  was  filled  with  tears,  and 
voices  that  had  shouted  steady  and  strong  in 
the  tumult  of  the  fight,  trembled  with  emotion. 
The  glorious  anthem  rang  through  the  Alpine 
valley  as  the  hymns  of  the  Waldenses  rang  of 
old,  recalling  their  ancient  worship,  before  the 
sword  of  the  oppressor  had  driven  them  forth 
to  eat  tlie  bitter  bread  of  captivity. 

After  a  short  pause,  they  again  struck  up, 
and  sung  the  hundred  and  twenty-ninth  Psalm : 
"  Many  a  time  have  they  afflicted  mo  from  my 
youth,  may  Israel  now  say  :  many  a  time  have 
they  afllicted  me  from  my  youth :  yet  they 
have  not  prevailed  against  me.  The  ploughers 
ploughed  upon  my  back  :  they  made  long  their 
furrows.  The  Lord  is  righteous :  he  hath  cut 
asunder  the  cords  of  the  wicked.  Let  them  all 
be  confounded  and  turned  back  tliat  hate 
Zion,"  &c.  Alter  they  had  finished  singing 
the  Psalm,  Amaud  preached  in  exposition  of  it 


He  showed  how  they  had  been  afflicted,  and 
sorely,  like  Zion  of  old — how  the  ploughers 
had  ploughed  upon  their  backs  and  trodden  them 
down.  He  spoke  of  their  long  exile  in  other 
lands — their  toils  and  hardships,  until  they  were 
ready  to  weep  anew  over  their  misfortunes. 
But  when  he  came  to  show  how  the  Lord  liad 
"cut  asunder  the  cords  of  the  wicked,"  and 
"  turned  back"  those  that  "  hated  Zion,"  every 
eye  beamed  with  joy  and  triumph,  and  there 
hovered  on  every  lip  the  shout  that  went  up  so 
loud  from  the  bloody  field  of  Salbertrann: 
"  Thanks  to  the  Eternal  of  armies  who  hath 
given  us  the  victory." 

We  cannot  follow  the  Waldenses  through  all 
their  difficulties,  until  they  finally,  as  mentioned 
in  a  previous  sketch,  took  possession  of  the  vale 
of  Bobi.  They  met  with  losses  and  some  disas- 
ters, but  never  with  a  defeat ;  their  enemies 
were  turned  back  in  every  encounter. 

Only  one  charge  has  been  laid  to  the  door  of 
the  Waldenses  in  this  long  and  perilous  march, 
that  of  cruelty  to  their  captives.  During  the 
latter  part  of  their  expedition  they  invariably  put 
them  to  death.  Whether  they  surrendered  or 
were  taken  by  force,  it  mattered  not ;  they  were 
slain  without  mercy.  But  it  must  be  remem- 
bered this  was  not  an  act  of  vengeance,  nor  did 
it  spring  from  that  thirst  of  blood  which  has 
made  so  many  tigers  of  the  human  species,  but 
was  an  act  of  self-defence — of  pure  necessity. 
Few  in  number  themselves,  they  could  not  be 
encumbered  with  prisoners,  for  the  latter  would 
soon  outnumber  their  captors.  They  could  not 
turn  them  loose,  for  they  would  not  only  imme- 
diately arm  again  to  oppose  their  progress,  but 
convey  to  others  that  information  on  the  con- 
cealment of  which  the  salvation  of  the  Walden- 
ses depended.  To  set  them  free,  was  to  secure 
their  own  destruction :  and  they  could  not  con- 
fine them,  for  they  had  not  a  hut,  much  less  a 
fortified  place  they  could  call  their  own.  It 
was  a  hard  necessity,  but  one  their  enemies 
laid  upon  them.  They  could  not  have  done 
otherwise,  and  the  poor  victims  were  slain 
while  crying  for  mercy.  Shut  out  from  all  re- 
inforcements, with  no  post  to  fall  back  upon, 
and  no  line  of  communication  kept  open  be- 
tween tliem  and  succor,  they  were  forced  to 
cut  their  way  through  to  their  possessions  and 
homes  with  the  sword,  and  right  nobly  did  tliey 
do  it.  Their  pastor,  Arnaud,  was  afilictcd  with 
no  childish  squeamishness  about  shedding  blood. 
Ho  would  pray  with  his  face  to  the  ground  for 
tlio  help  of  Heaven,  and  then  rise  and  rush  to 


STANZAS. 


157 


battle.  He  would  send  up  his  loud  thanksgiv- 
ing for  deliverance,  and  then  coolly  slay  his 
prisoners ;  and  God  heard  him  and  sanctioned 
his  course,  and  made  him  the  founder  again  of 
his  church  in  the  Alps.  He  was  a  noble  and 
great  man.  Far-reaching  in  his  plans — clear 
in  thought — correct  in  judgment — prompt  and 
fearless  in  action — humble  and  devout  in  his 
religion,  he  excites  our  wonder  and  admiration 
at  the  same  time  that  he  wins  our  love  and  sym- 
patliy.  A  man  of  peace,  ignorant  of  arms,  he 
yet  withstood  the  king  of  France,  then  the  ter- 
ror of  Europe,  and  put  to  flight  his  veteran 
troops.  The  hand  of  an  overruling  Providence 
is  seen  in  all  that  transpired  under  his  guidance. 
The  Israelites  never  fought  a  battle  in  which 
the  interposition  of  Heaven  was  more  clearly 
seen  than  in  that  of  Salbertrann.  That  eight 
hundred  peasants  should  attack,  in  an  en- 
trenched position,  and  put  to  flight  nearly  three 


thousand  regular  troops,  and  in  the  open  valley 
slay  six  hundred  men,  with  a  loss  of  only  fifteen 
to  themselves,  is  little  less  than  miraculous. 
Equally  so  is  the  routing  of  twenty-two  thou- 
sand French  and  Piedmontese  by  three  hundred 
and  sixty-seven  Waldenses,  just  emerged,  pale 
and  thin,  from  six  months'  imprisonment.  It  is 
also  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  Lord  preser\-ed 
the  grain  upon  the  earth  till  midwinter,  so  that 
tlie  Waldenses  could  gather  it  for  their  preser- 
vation after  they  had  got  possession  of  their 
country.  In  those  high  latitudes  and  elevated 
regions,  to  see  men  harvesting  grain  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  instead  of  the  height  of  summer,  one 
is  ready  to  believe  it  a  miriacle,  as  much  so  as 
the  showers  of  manna  that  fell  around  the  camp 
of  Israel. 

We  have  omitted  many  things  in  our  hurried 
sketches,  lest  we  should  seem  too  tedious.  One 
more  engraving  and  sketch  will  finish  the  series 


s'lrAH^^s 


A  mother  is  at  rest. 
That  fond,  exulting,  anxious,  sorrowing  heart 
No  more  with  joy  shall  thrill,  with  grief  shall  smart, 

A  mother  is  c/  rest. 

A  wife  in  death  lies  low. 
like  priceless  jewel  in  a  brittle  urn, 
Love  in  her  heart  was  liid.    The  spoiler  stern 
Shivered  the  vase — lost  was  the  radiant  gem ; 
(Richer  than  pearl  in  monarch's  diadem,) 

A  wife  in  death  lies  low. 

A  friend  is  dead.  Whose  friend  ? 
Alas !  the  scalding  tear  upon  the  cheeks 
Of  all  who  knew  her  many  virtues,  speaks — 

"  Have  we  not  lost  a  friend  ?" 


A  ChH&tian  sleeps  in  death. 
A  soul  redeemed  from  selfishness  and  fear — 
A  will  to  ser\'e  her  heavenly  Master  here — 

Here  is  thy  triumph.  Death ! 


158  STANZAS. 

A  kind,  kind  heart  is  cold. 
A  spirit  buoyant,  undiscouraged,  free — 
Of  impulse  strong,  tireless  activity — 

In  plan  and  action  bold. 

Who  shall  arise  and  fill 
The  place  so  long  and  nobly  filled  by  thee  ? 
Christian,  wife,  mother,  friend,  kind  heart  ? — Till  we 
Another  of  a  kindred  spirit  see, 

We'll  mourn  thee  still. 

Yes,  we  mourn  our  loss. 
Though  great  thy  gain  :  our  selfish  hearts  will  bleed ; 
Ay,  though  we  know  thy  ransomed  soul  is  freed 

From  every  cross ; 

Yet  not,  indeed,  as  those 
Who  hopeless  mourn,  would  we  thy  fate  deplore  ; 
But,  rather,  those  bright  scenes  of  bliss  explore 

Where  now  thou  dost  repose. 

No  stranger  thou 
In  that  fair  world  ;  that  word  of  Christ's  is  thine  : 
"  I  know  my  sheep,  and  I  am  known  of  mine." 

He  will  fulfil  it  now. 

And  when  with  golden  key 
He  opes  the  crystal  gates  of  life  eternal. 
Where  pleasures  never  fading,  ever  vernal, 

Shall  strike  thy  dazzled  eye — 

Thy  fond  maternal  eye, 
Searching  amid  the  white-robed,  radiant  throng, 
Two  sainted,  youthful  forms  will  mefet  ere  long 

With  transports  high. 

Nor  will  the  Saviour  frown. 
Nor  check  the  bliss  of  that  enraptured  hour, 
When  the  death-severed  meet  to  part  no  more. 

Such  love  he'll  not  disown. 

And  there,  from  sorrow  freed. 
Pull  many  an  earthly  friend  thy  soul  shall  find ; 
The  warm  in  heart,  the  good,  the  pure  in  mind, 

Tlie  Saviour's  ransomed  seed. 

And  shall  wo  wish  thee  here, 
More  sin,  more  trial,  and  more  grief  to  know  ? 
Nay,  rather  may  our  spirits  long  to  go 

And  join  thee  there. 


MARANNIS. 


159 


Sffl^ISAHHIIS. 


A    TALE     OF     OLD    EGYPT. 


It  was  a  golden  day  in  the  Egyptian  sum- 
mer, and  the  sunbeams  fell  gloriously  on  the 
river  and  the  river  bank,  and  glittered  on  the  *\ 
massive  piles  of  Camak.  Such  a  day  is  never 
known  in  other  lands  than  those  where  the  sun 
gleams  through  pure  air,  and  shines  on  green 
spots  in  the  midst  of  deserts.  Such  a  day  is 
seldom  known  out  of  Eg)'pt. 

It  was  high  noon  of  a  festival,  and  the  no- 
bles and  the  mighty  men  were  proceeding  in 
vast  crowds  toward  the  temple  of  the  gods. 
Up  the  long  avenue,  between  the  giant  sphinx 
heads,  poured  the  thousands  of  worshippers,  in- 
deep  and  solemn  silence,  and  stood  at  last  far 
down  the  avenue,  before  the  veiled  statue  of 
Isis,  with  their  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  in- 
scription upon  its  base. 

At  the  entrance  between  the  second  pylonse, 
knelt  a  maiden,  the  daughter  of  a  prince,  with 
her  head  bent  toward  the  base  -of  an  obelisk, 
whose  mystical  finger  pointed  up  into  the  sun- 
light with  its  broken  apex,  signifying,  that  afar 
off  in  that  deep  blue,  was  an  unknown  God,  to 
whom  it  was  impossible  to  attain. 

She  was  a  queenly  child,  who  had  seen  the 
Nile  overflow  its  bank  some  sixteen  times.  The 
lineage  of  a  noble  shone  in  her  dark  eyes,  now 
covered  by  the  hea\y  lashes  that  drooped  over 
them.  She  had  knelt  thus,  unmoved,  motion- 
less, for  an  hour  or  more.  The  hundred  thou- 
sand men  of  Egypt,  were  far  down  the  long 
vista  of  pylona;,  sphinxes  and  obelisks.  She 
was  alone,  her  attendants  kneeling  apart  from 
her,  and  perfect  stillness  was  in  all  the  vast 
temple. 

As  she  knelt  thus,  she  was  suddenly  startled 
by  the  tones  of  a  voice,  whose  melody  was 
strangely  sweet,  yet  deep ;  and,  starting  to  her 
feet,  she  saw  standing  near  her,  an  old  and 
weary  looking  man,  resting  on  the  arm  of  one 
who  was  young"  and  strong.  The  garments  of 
the  older  were  plain  and  simple,  while  the  lat- 
ter wore  robes  of  princely  magnificence.    A 


long  train  of  armed  men  stood  silently  listening, 
while  the  patriarch,  looking  in  the  eye  of  the 
younger  man,  pointed  his  thin  white  finger 
heavenward,  and  spoke  in  the  musical  accents  of 
the  Hebrews.  His  head  was  white,  and  hia 
form,  once  tall  almost  to  the  stature  of  a  giant, 
was  now  bent  under  the  weight  of  six-score 
years ;  but  his  eye  was  bright  with  the  lustre 
of  youth,  and  gleamed  now  with  strange  fire,  as 
he  spoke  earnest  words  to  the  prince,  on  whose 
arm  he  leaned. 

The  latter  listened  with  deep  respect  until 
he  paused,  then  turning  to  his  train,  told  them 
that  the  old  man  was  speaking  of  the  unknown 
God  to  whom  the  obelisk  pointed ;  and  as  he 
turned,  the  Egyptian  maiden  caught  the  kingly 
glance,  and  bowed  low  before  the  eye  of  Joseph ; 
and  then  she  kaew  that  the  old  man  was  the 
father  of  their  ruler,  the  Hebrew  Jacob. 

She  listened  intently  while  Joseph  spoke  to 
his  warrior  train  of  the  God  of  Abraham.  The 
hardy  men  of  battle  heard  with  deep  respect, 
for  they  knew  that  their  master  had  intimate 
communion  with  his  God,  and  the  maid  drank 
in  every  word  of  this  new  and  marvelous  teach- 
ing. She  had  not  worshipped  Isis,  but  her  soul 
more  nearly  open  to  the  truth,  found  her  God 
at  the  foot  of  the  obelisk.  Here  was  a  revela- 
tion of  that  God — a  teacher  sent  from  Him ; 
and,  when  the  train  swept  on  up  the  avenue, 
she  turned  slowly  and  thoughtfully  away. 

There  was  one  in  the  train  who  had  not 
passed  by  the  maiden  without  a  glance  of  ad- 
miration. Nay — more  ;  while  she  had  been 
listening  to  the  voice  of  Joseph,  Ephraim  had 
been  reading  her  countenance  ;  and,  giving  up 
his  father's  words  to  other  ears,  had  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  that  beautiful  face.  By 
the  brilliant  jewels  on  her  forehead,  he  knew 
that  she  was  noble,  for  none  that  was  not  might 
wear  them  thus ;  and,  as  the  wind  blew  aside 
her  purple  robe,  by  the  glittering  serpent  with 
a  ruby  head,  which  shone  on  her  breast,  he 


160 


MARANNIS. 


knew  Marannis,  tlie  daughter  of  the  first  prince 
of  the  kingdom. 

Not  a  month  had  passed  since  the  festival  of 
Carnak,  and  Marannis  was  attached  to  the 
household  of  Asenath,  the  wife  of  Joseph. 
Here,  of  course,  she  was  daily  meeting  the  all- 
beloved  Ephraim.  He  was  a  manly  boy.  The 
olive  face  of  Canaan  was  somewhat  darkened 
by  his  Egyptian  blood,  and  he  had  an  eye  like 
an  eagle's.  Although  the  younger,  he  already 
surpassed  his  brother  in  stature  and  intellect ; 
and,  whichever  way  he  turned,  he  found  a  wel- 
come—all loved  the  bright  boy  Ephraim.  And 
Marannis  loved  him.  It  was  not  strange  that 
she,  whose  mind  was  wont  to  dwell  on  myste- 
ries that  her  father  shrank  from,  should  sit  and 
listen  to  the  Hebrew  boy,  as  he  repeated  in  her 
ear  the  lessons  he  had  learned  from  his  prophet 
father.  And  he  heard  from  her  the  lore  of  an- 
cient Egypt ;  for,  young  as  she  was,  she  had 
been  the  pupil  of  the  magicians,  and  they  had 
taught  her  much  of  the  wisdom  of  the  mother 
of  philosophers.  Egypt  even  then  was  old. 
The  pyramids  had  been  built  beyond  the  mem- 
ory of  man.  (Who  knows  but  that  nation  sent 
up  its  last  wail  of  agony  in  the  deluge,  from  the 
summit  of  Ghizeh  ?)  Elephantina  and  Carnak 
had  grown  old  and  hoary.  Among  these  rel- 
ics of  an  age  then  ancient,  (now  the  ancient  of 
ancients)  her  mind  had  grown  to  maturity  in 
early  girlhood,  and  she  taught  Ephraim  the 
mysteries  of  her  old  creed,  in  exchange  for  the 
truths  of  his  heavenly  instruction. 

The  giant  sons  of  Jacob  stood  around  his 
bed,  and  heard  his  last  words  and  his  blessing. 
His  head  lay  on  the  breast  of  Rachel's  first-born 
son,  the  saviour  of  Egj'pt,  the  ruler  of  the  king- 
dom. In  the  shade  of  the  heavy  curtain  of  the 
western  opening,  stood  Marannis,  holding  the 
hand  of  Asenath,  and  listening  to  the  words  of 
the  dying  patriarch.  How  her  heart  leaped,  as 
she  heard  him  bless  Ephraim  !  "  He  shall  be 
greater  than  his  brother,"  said  the  old  man; 
and  the  eye  of  the  maiden  sought,  in  the  dim 
light,  for  tjie  tall  form  of  her  boy-lover.  Anon 
he  sought  her  side,  and  Asenath  stepped  forth 
into  the  room,  to  the  head  of  the  couch,  and 
stood  near  Joseph. 

In  that  hour  the  Hebrew  boy  and  the  Egyp- 
tian girl  pledged  their  love  to  one  another,  in 


the  presence  of  the  God  they  both  acknowl- 
edged and  worshipped.  A  holy  love  was  that, 
gushing  up  out  of  their  glad  young  hearts,  and 
overflowing  from  their  eyes  in  smiles,  and  their 
lips  in  words  of  affection.  Three  years  passed, 
and  Ephraim  stood  by  the  death-couch  of  Ma- 
rannis. It  was  in  her  father's  lordly  mansion; 
tlie  proudest  man,  that  father,  in  all  Egypt. 

"I  am  passing  away,  Ephraim,"  said  she, 
"  passing  into  the  silent  land.  In  my  old  dreams 
of  death;  in  those  days  when  I  first  saw  you  in 
Carnak,  I  used  to  dream  of  keeping  a  vigil  over 
my  father  and  my  country,  sitting  on  some  star, 
or  flitting  through  the  blue  sky.  And  when  I 
>.  learned  to  love  you,  before  you  taught  me  the 
name  of  your  God,  (and  mine  now,)  I  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  die,  if  I  might  become 
a  spirit  to  go  with  you  alway,  and  watch  and 
love  you.  But  now !  I  have  seen  visions  of  a 
holy  land — a  land  fairer  than  the  Canaan  your 
father  tells  us  of !  I  go  thither.  In  that  bright 
land  I  shall  see  Abraham,  your  mighty  ances- 
tor, and  Isaac,  his  son.  Shall  I  not  know 
Rachel  and  Leah,  whom  I  heard  Jacob  name 
with  his  dying  breath?  Farewell — I  wait  your 
coming !" 

It  was  night  in  Ephraim's  soul,  for  many  a 
year  after  ho  laid  Marannis  in  the  tomb  of  her 
fathers.  When  the  moon  fell  softliest  on  the 
Nile,  he  oftentimes  stole  out  from  the  palace, 
and  pushing  his  light  boat  out  on  the  river, 
made  his  way  toward  the  spot  where  tliey  had 
placed  her,  and  wept  and  prayed. 

Years  hurried  along,  and  he  became  a  man. 
Gradually  the  vividness  of  that  affection  gave 
place  to  a  settled  sadness  on  his  face,  which 
they  said  remained  there  till  his  death — then  a 
smile,  serene  and  calm,  took  its  place,  but  not 
till  then. 

He  became  old,  and  the  father  of  a  mighty 
race.  But,  in  his  many  wanderings,  the  old 
man  forgot  not  that  first  bright  dream  of  his 
boyhood ;  and  when,  at  length,  the  years  of  his 
pilgrimage  were  ended,  and  he  lay  dying,  he 
seemed  to  see  a  face  looking  to  him  from  afar — 
to  hear  a  voice  falling  with  saintly  tones  on  liis 
ear,  and  he  smiled — and,  reaching  his  arms  out 
toward  heaven  as  if  to  embrace  a  beloved  one, 
ceased  to  struggle  with  the  ills  of  life. 


«  •     ,      •  •        •     " 


I-.-: 


TAILIit^r  .        „  .;    Wit*?2!ES. 


;he  Walla- 
Aho  collect 


and  and,  like 
iC  thick  grass 
uadowofitB  ma. 


■  on  ail  sides.      It  is,  in 

^         -    ■■'••■'ig  scene;  and  the  poorer 

..-Ik)  are  unable  to  command  a  carriage, 

-uu,  in  order  to  secure 

■  ?ry  fiivctite 


vJiks;    V 

■**^i>;i  ♦'■,.': 

'.V,ii 

1 1^  . 

hine. 

B 

Ing  willow,  stands  upon 
j-ucath  the  windows  of  the 
the  Sultan ;  and  tlic  breeze. 


':i  their  tenants    I   lus  season  o; 
■ranches  of  the   l   ballad  in  >><^ 
re  <rf  the  sun   5   certain 


carnages. 


•Tb<' 


^ 


Jlf"^ 


VALLEY  OF  SWEET  WATERS. 


161 


¥A]L3LIgY   (DIP   SWlEIg^   WAIPISmS. 


Kyat-Khasa,  called  by  the  Franks  the 
"  Valley  of  the  Sweet  Waters,"  is  a  lovely  glen, 
nestled  at  tlie  base  of  a  chain  of  hills,  and  situ- 
ated between  Eyoub  and  Hassa  KuT,  the  quar- 
ter of  the  Jews.  It  is  entirely  shut  in  on  all 
sides  ;  and  looks,  from  the  heights  above,  which 
are  bleak  and  arid,  hke  a  huge  emerald. 
Through  the  thick  grass  of  the  valley,  and 
under  the  shadow  of  its  magnificent  trees,  flows 
the  Barbyses ;  a  limpid,  but  inconsiderable 
stream,  upon  whose  banks  rise  two  of  the  most 
fairj'-like  edifices  that  ever  sheltered  prince  or 
peasant !  The  larger  building  is  a  summer- 
palace,  where  the  favorite  wives  of  the  Sultan 
lounge  away  many  of  the  long  sunshiny  days  of 
the  warm  season  in  comparative  freedom ;  and 
exchange  the  closely-latticed  apartments  of  the 
Imperial  harem  for  the  shady  groves  and  grassy 
paths  of  the  palace  gardens ;  dreaming  through 
the  hot  hours  in  gilded  kiosques*  on  the  river 
bank ;  or  driving  amid  the  tall  plane  trees  in 
arabaSjt  bright  with  gilding,  and  drawn  by 
cream-colored  oxen. 

The  valley  itself  is  delicious;  the  green- 
sward is  bright  and  rich,  to  a  degree  unkno\\'n  in 
any  other  en\iron  of  the  city.  In  spring  it  is  the 
grazing-ground  of  the  Imperial  stud  ;  and  beau- 
tiful Arabians  are  installed  with  great  pomp, 
picketed  after  the  Eastern  fashion,  and  super- 
intended by  parties  of  Bulgarians,  whose  tents 
are  pitched  in  the  valley,  and  who  never  quit  it 
under  any  pretence  until  they  are  released  from 
their  charge.  In  summer  it  is  the  resort  of  all 
ranks ;  who,  on  every  Friday,  (the  Turkish 
Sabbath.)  resort  thither,  to  enjoy  what  none 
know  better  how  to  appreciate  than  the  Orien- 
tals— a  bright  sky,  a  running  stream,  flowers, 
leaves,  and  sunshine.  Bullock-carriages,  cov- 
ered with  gay-colored  awnings  of  silken  shag, 
fringed  with  gold;  gilded  arabas  drawn  by 
swift  horses  ;  and  caiques,  the  number  of  whose 
elegantly-clad  rowers  denotes  the  rank  or 
wealth  of  their  owners,  pour  forth  their  tenants 
every  moment ;  while  the  thick  branches  of  the 
noble  trees  protect  from  the  glare  of  the  sun 
parties  of  white-veiled  women,  who,  squatted 
on  their  mats  or  carpets,  and  attended  by  their 


♦  Pavilions, 


t  Turkish  carriages. 


slaves,  sit  for  hours,  listening  to  the  Walla- 
chian  and  Bulgarian  musicians,  who  collect 
paras*  and  praises  at  a  very  trifling  expense  of 
melody ;  purchasing  the  prettily  and  significant- 
ly arranged  boquets  of  the  dark-eyed  Bohe- 
mian flower-girls;  or  watching  the  ungainly 
dances  of  the  Sclavonians,  who,  with  their  dis- 
cordant bagpipes  under  their  arms,  perform 
evolutions  which  resemble  the  saltatory  attempts 
of  half-educated  bears.  Here  and  there,  a  little 
apart  from  the  crowd,  may  be  seen  a  party  of 
Greeks,  engaged  in  their  graceful  romaika ; 
while  groups  of  lovely  children,  and  water- 
venders,  and  sweetmeat  merchants,  wander  up 
and  down  the  greensward,  and  are  greeted  with 
smiles  and  welcome  on  all  sides.  It  is,  in 
short,  a  spirit-stirring  scene ;  and  the  poorer 
classes,  who  are  unable  to  command  a  carriage, 
or  a  caique,  will  cheerfully  toil  on  foot  from  the 
city,  under  a  scorching  sun,  in  order  to  secure 
their  portion  of  the  festival. 

The  valley  of  Kyat-Khana  is  a  very  favorite 
resort  of  the  present  Sultan,  who  has  expended 
considerable  sums  in  beautifying  the  palace, 
and  in  ornamenting  the  fountains  and  kiosques 
which  appertain  to  it ;  but  only  a  short  time 
since  it  was  entirely  abandoned  for  two  years, 
owing  to  the  death  of  a  favorite  Odalique,  who 
expired  suddenly,  in  the  very  zenith  of  her 
youth  and  beauty,  during  a  visit  which  she 
made  here  with  her  Imperial  master ;  whose 
grief  at  her  loss  was  so  intense,  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  inhabit  the  valley  until  time  had 
blunted  his  regret.  A  handsome  head-stone, 
erected  to  her  memory,  lettered  with  gold,  and 
overshadowed  by  a  weeping  willow,  stands  upon 
a  square  platform,  beneath  the  windows  of  the 
saloon  occupied  by  the  Sultan ;  and  the  breeze, 
as  it  sweeps  tlirough  the  flexile  branches  of  tlie- 
tree,  almost  carries  them  into  the  apartment. 
Sultan  Mahmoud,  who  is  esteemed  a  very  re- 
spectable poet  for  an  Emperor,  is  said,  during 
his  season  of  despair,  to  have  written  a  pathetic 
ballad  in  her  honor  ;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  it  is 
certain  that  she  has  been  long  forgotten  among 
the  bevy  of  beauties  who  now  tread  the  gilded 
chambers  of  the  palace  of  Kyat-Khana. 

•The  smallest  actual  coin  known;  twenty  of 
them  being  only  equal  tp.oft?  penny  English. 


162 


SCENES    IN    THE    EAST. 


S(BllflS   Hlf   ^mm  liAS^. 


BY    AN    ITALIAN    OFFICER. 


EGYPTIAN    SERAGLIO— GREEK    CAPTIVE— BATTLE    OF    ST.    JEAN    D'ACRE. 


When  we  returned  to  Alexandria,  in  Egypt, 
we  found  the  Egyptian  squadron  ready  for  bat- 
tle. All  the  fortresses  and  shores  around  the 
city  were  well  armed  with  guns,  and  watched 
by  soldiers.  Mehemet  All's  palace  was  changed 
into  a  place  of  defence,  while  the  Pacha  had 
retired  to  Napoleon's  fort,  in  the  centre  of 
Alexandria.  In  the  Tuscan  consulship  I  met, 
for  the  first  time,  Ali  Bey,  the  most  handsome 
and  polite  Egyptian  I  ever  saw.  He  invited 
me  to  his  house  and  desired  me  to  write  a  letter 
in  Italian  for  him.  He  lived  in  a  very  luxurious 
style  ;  his  saloon  was  entirely  covered  by  silk 
draperies,  furnished  with  the  richest  divans, 
and  paved  with  white  marble.  We  drank  IMocha 
coffee,  and  smoked  Hatakia's  tobacco,  with  tlie 
arkylem  in  the  Turkish  fashion.  I  asked  him 
to  allow  me  to  see  his  seraglio.  "  Although 
it  is  not  customary  among  us  to  show  foreigners 
our  women,  I  will  satisfy  your  wishes,"  said  he. 
In  the  mean  time  he  gave  orders  to  the  chief  of 
his  eunuchs  to  have  his  ladies  made  acquainted 
with  my  visit,  and  to  keep  themselves  with  their 
veils  down  over  their  faces.  "  I  differ  from  the 
Europeans,"  added  he,  "  in  that  I  keep  concu- 
bines and  slaves.  I  would  rather  have  a  legiti- 
mate wife,  and  my  servants  free ;  but  1  must 
submit  to  the  customs  of  my  country."  We 
entered  into  the  seraglio,  in  the  room  where  the 
women  were  assembled  by  order  of  their  chief 
There  were  a  score  of  women,  sitting  down  on 
Persian  carpets,  around  a  beautiful  fountain  of 
fresh  and  clear  water,  where  colored  fishes 
were  playing  and  swimming.  Some  of  the 
concubines  were  smoking,  others  drinking 
coffee  or  sweet  potions,  and>many  were  reading 
the  Alcoran,  and  the  talcs  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  When  the  chief  of  the  eunuchs  opened 
the  golden  door,  or  what  Ali  Bey  called  the 
ceUstial    entry,   all    the    captives    bowed    to 


their  master,  and  all  their  looks  were  cast  upon 
me.  They  were  covered  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  veil  of  white  cashmere,  having  only  two  holes 
for  the  eyes  and  one  for  the  breath.  I  sat  down 
with  Ali  Bey  on  a  divan  in  this  epicurean  para- 
dise, where  the  old  eunuch,  like  the  cruel 
Cerberus  of  the  Sybilla,  was  always  looking  at 
me  and  at  those  women  wlio  he  supposed 
could  most  attract  my  attention,  and  excite  my 
young  and  ardent  imagination.  His  look  was 
fierce ;  always  cast  on  me,  like  a  tiger  watch- 
ing for  a  new  victim.  He  appeared  angry  that 
his  master  should  have  introduced  a  foreigner 
into  the  sacred  sanctuary  of  his  love.  Tliis 
poor  Ethiopian  had  been  mutilated  from  child- 
hood, and  h  ?  was  also  deprived  of  the  use  of 
speaking,  as  his  tongue  had  been  cruelly  cut 
out.  He  had  to  look  and  be  silent — such  was 
his  duty.  The  ladies  of  the  seraglio  could  play 
and  sing.  They  were  all  of  different  countries, 
such  as  Georgians,  Jewesses,  and  one  Grecian 
woman.  This  latter  sang  a  Grecian  song,  and 
accompanied  herself  on  the  guitar,  by  order  of 
her  master.  Her  name  was  Lyda,  born  in 
Scio,  where  she  was  taken  prisoner  in  the  war 
in  1821,  between  the  Greeks  and  Turks.  She 
was  only  three  years  old  when  she  was  brought 
by  a  Jew  and  sold  for  fifteen  years  to  Ali  Bey. 
I  could  see  only  her  sparkling  eyes  and  red 
lips,  and  I  formed  the  idea  that  she  was  a  beau- 
tiful woman.  I  was  more  fortunate  than  Ali — I 
could  understand  the  modern  Greek  language, 
and  her  sweet  but  lamentable  song :  "  Oh, 
Grecia,  my  native  land,  must  I  say  to  thee  fare- 
well forever  ?  Shall  I  see  no  more  my  native 
place,  the  beautiful  blue  skies  of  Grecia,  and 
sleep  no  more  on  my  mother's  breast  ?"  Afler 
a  moment  of  rest,  and  taking  advantage  of  the 
ignorance  of  Ali,  she  began  again  to  sing : 
\    "  Oh,  foreigner  !    oh,  youth  !    if  e'er  you  visit 


SCENES    IX    TIIE    EAST. 


163 


Grecia,  salute  my  native  heme  for  m?.  Tell 
my  unhappy  friends  that  Lyda  Hesperas  lives — 
but  no,  I  do  not  live — a  slave,  a  concubine 
dies  always — never  lives."  After  her  song 
was  finished,  my  heart  was  filled  with  a  strong 
and  anxious  desire  to  free  her  from  her  slavery, 
and  to  carrj-  her  to  Greece. 

Ali  Bey  asked  me  in  Italian  what  Lyda  sang. 
It  was  a  very  difficult  matter  for  me  to  answer 
his  question  truly,  and  I  said :  "  Your  Lyda 
sang  the  beauties  of  nature." 

The  second  day  of  our  stay  in  Alexandria 
we  were  sent  to  Constantinople  to  take  back  the 
charge  of  Mehemet  Ali.  Ali  Bey  had  received 
orders  from  the  Pacha  to  go  to  Rosetta,  and  I 
was  in  great  incertitude  as  to  the  expediency  of 
endeavoring  to  rescue  Lyda,  and  to  fly  with  her 
to  Greece.  But,  with  all  my  sweet  dreams  and 
good  feelings,  I  was  under  the  painful  necessity 
of  leaving  the  lovely  and  unhappy  Lyda  to 
her  fate,  and  return  to  my  vessel. 

We  landed,  for  a  few  hours,  at  the  Island  of 
Cyprus,  near  the  road  of  Salamis,  where,  cen- 
turies ago,  there  was  accomplished  the  fate  and 
independence  of  Greece.  There,  two  great 
generals,  Themistocles  and  Aristides,  forgot  their 
hatred  and  threw  aside  the  \-ain  and  childish 
dissension  which  had  separated  them  for  many 
years.  There  were  gathered  all  the  Grecian 
people  spared  from  the  wars  of  Xerxes,  and 
there  Greece,  for  the  last  time,  gave  to  the 
world  a  great  example  of  valor  and  of  patriotism. 
The  brave  Lacedaemonians  died  at  Ther- 
mopyla;,  in  obedience  to  their  law.  Athens  was 
destroyed  by  the  Barbarians — Greece  deserted  on 
account  of  the  Persian  invasion,  and  all  the  hope 
of  her  salvation  lay  in  the  waters  of  the  Sala- 
mis— where  the  Grecian  fleet  of  three  hundred 
and  eighty  vessels,*  after  a  fierce  fight,  and  a 
great  loss  on  both  sides,  destroyed  almost  all 
the  Persian  navy,  and  insured  tlie  victory  and 
BaI\-ation  of  Greece.  On  our  way  to  Constan- 
tinople we  took  a  pilot  at  Teaos,  who  assured 
as  of  an  imminent  attack  on  Alexandria,  by 
the  Turkish  navy.  The  pilot  was  a  Greek,  and 
had  sailed  in  the  Archipelago  for  more  than 
thirty  years. 

Think  of  a  young  man  of  nineteen  years  of 
age,  who  had  always  sympathized  with  Greece 
and  Greeks,  having  a  good  knowledge  of  the 
ancient  and  modem  history  of  that  country,  and 
what  must  have  been  my  delight,  to  view,  for 
the  first  time,  the  Grecian  shores  !     I  wished 

I  ♦  Herodotus,  lib.  viii.  chap  8,  p.  96. 


to  go  to  Athens,  and  travel  all  over  that 
classic  soil,  but  could  not.  When  near  the 
island  of  Tenedos,  the  pilot  called  me  out  from 
my  cabin,  to  see  Mount  Idas,  and,  behind  it, 
the  place  where  stood  the  ancient  city  of  Troy. 
I  took  Virgil's  JBneid  with  me,  and  gazed 
upon  those  shores,  covered,  in  former  years, 
with  warriors  and  combats,  but  now  all  silent 
and  deserted.  A  few  white  stones  are  the 
only  memorial  left  to  the  traveler  to  see  where 
once  stood  the  ancient  and  great  city  of  Troy. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  of  our  sail- 
ing, we  entered  the  Hellespont,  where  Xerxes 
constructed  a  bridge  over  the  sea  which  divides 
Europe  from  Asia.  The  space  is  not  over  a 
mile  broad,  but  still  it  is  dangerous  when  the 
wind  blows  from  north-east.  On  both  sides 
there  are  strong  fortresses,  in  order  to  prevent 
war  vessels  from  entering  tlie  sea  of  Mar- 
mora. 

When  we  obtained  the  firman  to  go  to  Con- 
stantinople, we  continued  our  sail,  and  arrived 
at  Matamora  towards  the  evening.  The  shores 
of  the  sea,  the  various  and  picturesque  hills, 
the  sun  that  was  setting  behind  the  white  top 
of  Mount  Olympus,  offered  the  most  enchant- 
ing and  delightful  view.  At  sunrise  we  ar- 
rived at  Constantinople.  We  passed  near  the 
Island  of  the  Princes,  and,  when  near  the  Im- 
perial Seraglio,  fired  a  salute  to  the  Turkish 
fleet  The  Turkish  commodore  did  not  return 
our  salute,  and  even  neglected  to  hoist  the 
Tuscan  colors ;  and  our  captain  sent  me  to  the 
commodore's  vessel,  to  demand  the  reason  for 
such  an  insulL 

The  answer  was  short,  and  not  less  insult- 
ing. We  had  to  consider  ourselves  prisoners 
of  war,  and  the  commodore  ordered  us  to  cast 
anchor  near  the  fortress  of  the  Seraglio. 

We  were  prohibited  to  go  on  shore,  for  any 
purpose,  until  permitted  by  the  Di\"an.  The 
Turkish  government  had  been  informed  of  the 
mission  of  our  vessel — to  bring  secret  dis- 
patches to  some  friends  of  Mehemet  Ali,  and 
to  return  to  Alexandria  for  the  same  purpose. 
Although  the  captain  protested  against  such  a 
violation,  as  our  vessel  carried  the  Tuscan  flag, 
Mahmcud,  the  old  Sultan,  would  not  hear  any 
reason  from  us.  Had  not  the  ambassadors  of 
the  Allied  Powers  interfered  in  our  favor,  our 
splendid  frigate  would  have  been  seized  by  the 
Turkish  government,  and  we  forced  to  do  ser- 
vice in  the  Turkish  fleet. 

It  was  on  Friday,  the  holy  day  of  the  Ma- 
hommedan  religion,  and  on  the  anniversary  of 


164 


SCENES    IN    THE    EAST. 


the  Ramazan,  when,  at  sunrise,  all  the  ves- 
sels and  forts  fired  salutes  and  raised  the  Ma- 
hommedan  colors,  and  those  of  the  Allied  Pow- 
ers. After  the  prayer  of  the  Sultan  in  St.  So- 
phia, all  the  army  paraded  at  the  Bazaar.  The 
Emperor  reviewed  his  troops,  and  exhorted  them 
to  be  faithful  and  brave  soldiers.  After  a 
while,  accompanied  by  the  great  Dervis,  or 
great  priest,  and  by  all  his  ministers  and  supe- 
rior officers,  he  went  on  board  the  commodore's 
vessel,  where  the  Dervis  read  the  Alcoran, 
invoked  upon  the  Sultan  the  protection  of  the 
prophet  Mahomet,  and  blessed  all  the  navy  in 
a  loud  voice.  The  squadron  left  the  same  day 
for  Alexandria  in  Egypt. 

On  the  tenth  day  of  our  detention,  Mali- 
moud  sent  us  orders  to  leave  the  road,  and 
never  return  to  Constantinople,  but  to  sail  for 
Italy,  instead  of  Alexandria  in  Egypt.  The 
firman  of  the  Sultan  was,  that,  if  we  should 
dare  to  re-enter  the  Hellespont,  all  the  fortresses 
of  the  Dardanelles  would  fire  upon  us,  and  sink 
our  vessel. 

With  such  a  kind  and  imperial  order,  wc 
gave  our  first  farewell  to  Stamboul,  yet  with 
much  sorrow,  as  I  would  have  visited  the  city 
•and  the  beautiful  shores  of  the  Bosphorus. 
I  had  seen  nothing  of  the  city,  only  from  our 
ship — merely  the  outlines  of  the  golden  mina- 
rets of  St.  Sophia,  the  splendid  and  magnificent 
palace  of  the  Sultan,  and  the  marble  building 
of  the  Seraglio.  On  entering  the  Marmora 
Sea,  we  saw  a  small  caique,  or  boat,  bearing  a 
white  flag,  and  making  us  signs  to  stop.  From 
the  signals  made  by  the  passenger  on  board  the 
boat,  our  captain  believed  that  this  was  the 
secret  emissary  of  Mehemet  Ali.  We  took  him 
on  board,  and  he  said  to  the  captain  that  he 
was  Salim  Bey,  the  secret  ChargS  d'' Affaires  of 
the  Pacha  of  Egypt. 

In  five  days  we  arrived  at  Alexandria,  and 
the  Turkish  squadron  had  not  yet  appeared. 
Salim  Bey  went  to  see  the  Pacha,  and  they 
remained  a  long  time  in  a  secret  colloquy  at 
the  Fort  Napoleon.  When  the  news  of  the 
sailing  of  the  Turkish  fleet  was  known  in  town, 
all  the  Europeans  were  ordered,  by  their  con- 
suls, to  leave  the  city  for  Rosetta.  The  Egyp- 
tian navy  and  army  were  ready  to  fight,  and 
the  whole  population  was  excited  against  those 
Europeans  who  belonged  to  the  Allied  Powers. 
At  last  the  hostile  squadron  was  seen  ap- 
proaching the  road,  and  from  the  admiral's  ves- 
Bel  was  made  a  signal  of  trust.  Salim  Bey 
was  diBpatched  with  a  pilot-boat  to  tho  Turkish 


commodore,  and  that  mysterious  flag  was  the 
real  signal  of  the  most  shameful  and  infamous 
treachery. 

During  the  night  the  Egyptian  vessels  were 
engaged  in  changing  their  anchorage.  This 
was  a  very  strange  affair,  and  none  of  the  Eu- 
ropean men-of-war  in  the  road  of  Alexandria 
could  understand  the  intent  of  such  a  nocturnal 
movement.  Early  in  the  morning  the  Turkish 
squadron  came  into  the  harbor  of  Alexandria, 
without  any  hostile  demonstration.  It  was 
known  after  that  the  Turkish  admiral  had 
wretchedly  betrayed  the  Sultan  Mahmoud, 
giving  his  fleet  into  the  hands  of  Mehemet  Ali. 
Each  Turkish  vessel  was  placed  between  two 
Egyptian  men-of-war,  and,  by  order  of  the 
Pacha,  all  the  ammunition  was  taken  from  on 
board  the  Turkish  fleet.  Tho  consuls  cf  the 
Allied  Powers  protested  against  such  a  treach- 
ery and  violation."-  They  sent  their  ultimatum 
to  the  Pacha — to  return  the  fleet  to  the  Sultan, 
to  evacuate  all  Syria,  and  to  consider  himself 
a  vassal  of  the  Sublime  Porte,'aiid  not  an  inde- 
pendent prince,  or  encounter  the  hostility  of 
their  respective  governments.  Such  an  arro- 
gant threat  could  only  irritate  and  hurt  still 
more  the  feelings  of  Mehemet  Ali,  who  an- 
swered the  consuls  by  returning  them  their 
passports.  He  declined  any  interview  with 
them,  he  refused  their  offerings  ;  and  the  con- 
suls of  England,  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria, 
left  Alexandria  for  Constantinople. 

All  the  English  and  Austrian  naval  forces  of 
the  Archipelago  and  Mediterranean  Seas  were 
united  in  Syria,  in  the  harbor  of  Beyrout  and 
off  St.  Jean  d'Acre.  The  war  was  now  openly 
declared.  Mehemet  Ali  had  refused  to  submit 
to  the  ultimatum  of  the  Great  Sultan  and  of  the 
Allied  Powers,  in  spite  also  of  the  infidelity  of 
the  French  Government. 

We  left  Alexandria  for  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  by 
order  of  the  Pacha,  with  dispatches  for  Ibrahim 
Pacha,  commander-in-chief  of  the  whole 
army  of  Syria.  In  less  than  forty  hours  after 
wc  arrived  there,  all  communications  were 
prohibited.  We  could  not  land  nor  send  the 
dispatches  to  Ibrahim  Pacha.  The  English 
fleet  was  of  fifteen  vessels,  while  the  Austrians 
had  four  frigates  and  other  small  vessels.  In 
all,  the  allied  navy  consisted  of  thirty  men-of- 
war  and  four  steamers.  We  remained  in  tho 
harbor  to  wait  for  tho  attack  on  the  city  and , 
fortresses.  Ibrahim  had  refused  again  to  evac- 
uate Syria,  and  the  English  and  Austrian 
commanders  took  on  board  all  the  Europeans 


SCENES  IN  THE  EAST. 


165 


who  were  in  the  city.  In  the  evening,  all  the 
foreign  vessels  received  orders  to  cast  anchor 
in  the  bay,  as  the  next  day  was  decided  upon 
in  which  to  commence  the  attack  and  bom- 
bardment of  St.  Jean  d'Acre. 

That  fatal  and  bloody  day  came,  when  ten 
thousand  more  victims  had  to  perish,  and 
a  strong  and  beautiful  city  to  fiill  in  ruins. 
The  sun  had  hardly  appeared  on  the  whit« 
and  eternal  snows  of  Lebanon  before  Na- 
pier, the  English  commodore,  gave  the  signal 
to  all  the  allied  fleet  to  weigh  anchor.  The 
Arabs  believed  that  the  squadron  was  leaving 
for  sea,  and  they  paid  no  attention  to  the  mali- 
cious and  skilful  motions  of  the  enemy.  When 
a  mile  from  the  road,  Napier  gave  orders  to 
sail  again  into  the  harbor,  and  sweeping  up 
in  splendid  style,  they  cast  anchor  under  the 
fortresses  of  the  city.  From  our  vessel  we 
could  see  all  the  motions  of  the  fleet,  and  when 
they  had  cast  anchor  near  the  city,  our  captain 
Siiid  that  St.  Jean  d'Acre  was  lost.  "  NafM)- 
poleon,"said  he,  '-has  spent  six  months  and  de- 
stroyed a  strong  array  under  the  walls  of  St. 
Jean  d'Acre,  but  now  this  impregnable  place 
must  fall  in  less  than  a  day."  The  Arabs  had 
allowed  the  enemy  to  approach  so  near  the 
walls  of  the  city,  that  the  guns  from  shore 
could  do  no  harm  to  the  vessels,  as  they  were 
lower  than  the  fortresses.  Napier  and  Ban- 
diera,  the  Austro-Turkish  commodore,  made 
signal  to  prepare  for  action.  The  four  steamers 
then  opened  their  fire  ;  the  whole  fleet  began  a 
tremendous  and  stormy  cannonade.  The  Arabs 
answered  with  a  no  less  destructive  fire,  but  in 
less  order  and  without  any  advantage.  The 
enemy  was  sure  of  the  victory,  as  his  navy 
wjis  under  shelter  of  the  guns  on  shore.  Four 
houi's  had  already  passed  in  bombarding  and 
destroying,  when  the  Austi'o-Italian  frigate  La 
Venere  changed  her  position,  and  directed  her 
blazing  bombs  on  the  higher  fortress  of  the 
city.  In  five  minutes  all  that  large  fortress 
was  turned  into  a  volcano  of  fire  and  ruins ;  one 
bomb  had  fallen  on  the  magazine,  and  more 
than  two  thousand  soldiers  perished  in  the 
awful  explosion  that  followed.  This  was  the 
signal  for  the  end  of  that  fierce  battle,  and  of 
the  victory  for  the  enemy.  The  city  had  al- 
ready ceased  to  answer  the  guns  of  the  allied 
squadrons,  but  no  signs  of  tnice  appeared  for 
the  whole  day.  The  loss  and  damages  of  the 
English  and  Austro-Italian  navy  was  a  trifling 
affair,  compared  wjd^  the  destruction  of  the 
Arabs,  and  of  the  ciJy  of  St.  Jean  d'Acre. 


The  bombardment  of  Acre  had  ceased  with 
the  night  of  the  3d  of  November,  and  a  de- 
tachment of  the  troops  of  the  Allied  Powere 
took  possession  of  the  citj-.  The  Gibraltar 
of  Syria  was  lost ;  Ibrahim  Pasha  retired  to 
the  mountains,  waiting  for  new  troops  or  an 
order  to  leave  Sp-ia.  His  situation  was 
precarious;  he  could  no  longer  occupy  that 
country.  All  his  troops  were  starved  and 
Avasted  away,  and  the  whole  Syrian  popula- 
tion in  arms  against  him. 

After  four  months  of  war,  Syria  was  evacu- 
ated ;  and  the  reti-eat  of  the  Egyptians  was 
accomjianied  by  the  most  tenible  disasters. 
Near  20,000  men  died  on  their  way  to  Egypt, 
by  starvation,  thii-st,  sickness,  and  the  fire  of 
the  enemy !  Such  w.is  the  end  of  the  splendid 
Egyptian  army  of  50,000  men  who  had  con- 
quered all  Syria,  and  so  bravely  fought  the 
battle  of  Nizib  against  70,000  Turks. 

Ibrahim  Pasha  had  retired  to  Gaza  in  Pales- 
tine by  the  most  difficult  and  circuitous  march, 
round  by  the  Dead  Sea  and  the  plains  of  Jor- 
dan. His  few  regiments  encamped  in  that  de- 
serted land  were  in  no  condition  to  give  battle 
or  to  defend  themselves  against  the  Turkish 
army.  They  were  deprived  of  all  the  neces- 
saiy  means,  the  Oriental  plague  made  large 
i*avages  amongst  them,  and  the  Turks,  com- 
manded by  General  Jochmus,  were  pursuing 
them.  Had  not  the  English  interfered,  the 
Pasha  and  his  companions  in  suffering  would 
ceitainly  have  been  destroyed. 

We  were  only  three  days  in  Alexandria 
when  the  Pasha,  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  his 
son,  and  hearing  that  he  was  exposed  at  Graza 
to  the  Turks,  dispatched  our  vessel  and  the 
steamer  Nile  with  troops,  money,  and  victuals. 
Our  captain  had  orders  to  bring  the  prince  him- 
self to  Alexandria,  but  Ibrahim  prefen-ed  to  land 
at  Damietta,  as  his  person  would  have  been  in 
danger  from  the  population  of  Alexandria. 

Sir  Charles  Napier  had  already  appeared  be- 
fore Alexandria  when  we  reached  the  harbor. 
He  issued  a  proclamation  to  the  Pasha,  stating 
that  Great  Britain,  Austria,  Russia  and  Prussia, 
with  the  Sultan,  had  decided  that  the  nile  of 
Mehemet  Ali  had  ceased  in  Syria ;  that  he  must 
return  the  Turkish  fleet,  and  submit  himself 
to  the  Sublime  Porte.  Two  days  passed  in 
changing  protocols  and  counter-protocols,  mes- 
sages and  counter-messages,  but  nothing  was 
yet  decided  by  the  Pasha.  Mehemet's  last 
hope  was  gone,  yet  still  he  hesitated.  Napier 
sent  him  his  vltimatutn,  giving  half  an  hour  to 


166 


SCENES    AND    ADVENTURES    IN    THE    EAST. 


the  Pasha  to  answer.  All  the  inhabitants  were 
in  great  despair  and  confusion,  and  the  soldiers 
began  to  desert  their  places.  Napier  sent  an- 
other and  last  dispatch.  "  If  you  are  disposed 
to  submit,"  said  the  English  commodore,  "  you 
shall  be  restored  to  the  government  of  all 
Egypt ;  but  if  you  refuse  my  ofTer,  remember 
that  I  have  taken  Acre  in  less  than  live  hours, 
and  I  shall  burn  and  destroy  your  fleet,  your 
army  and  Alexandria  in  five  minutes."  The 
Pasha  was  forced  to  yield.  The  Turkish  fleet 
was  restored  to  the  Sultan,  and  Syria  was  fairly 
evacuated!  The  Pasha  IMehemet  Ali  had  been 
pardoned,  a  decoration  as  a  great  vizier  con- 
ferred on  him,  and  the  province  of  Egypt  con- 
ceded to  him,  with  the  hereditary  right  thereto 
to  his  descendants. 

Thus  ended  the  war  of  Syria.  More  than 
30,000  people  perished  in  the  mountains  and 
plains,  and  the  few  regiments  left  by  Ibrahim 
at  Gaza  were  dying  by  starvation  and  plague. 
When  peace  was  restored,  we  believed  that 
our  vessel  would  have  been  sent  back  to  Italy, 
all  our  ship's  crew  being  tired  of  so  long  and 
dangerous  a  stay  on  those  shores  :  many  were 
dead,  and  others  were  affected  by  diseases  of 
tliose  countries.  I  secretly  advised  the  crew 
to  send  a  petition  to  our  consul,  to  let  him  know 
how  ill-treated  we  were,  that  we  would  not 
stay  any  longer,  neither  on  the  vessel  nor  in 
that  country ;  that  our  time  was  finished,  and 
we  were  all  anxious  to  return  to  our  homes. 
All  this  was  unknown  to  our  captain  and 
officers.  When  the  consul  received  our  clan- 
destine petition,  he  was  just  dining  with  the 
captain.  Although  we  did  not  complain  of  our 
officers,  our  petition  was  looked  upon  by  the 
stupid  and  ignorant  chargi  d'affaires  as  a  plot 
or  conspiracy  against  them.  The  captain  was 
the  bearer  of  tlie  answer  to  our  petition,  and  of 
the  supreme  and  barbarous  decision  of  his  little 
highness.  I,  as  the  author  of  so  famous  a  piece 
of  bombast,  was  put  in  irons  and  confined  for 
ten  days  down  in  the  steerage,  while  the  others 
who  signed  witli  me  had  received  orders  not  to 
go  ashore  again  till  we  returned  to  Italy.  After 
ten  days  of  retirement,  we  sent  another  petition 
— it  was  our  uUiTnatum.  We  asked  permission 
either  to  leave  the  vessel  or  to  sail  by  ourselves 
for  Italy.  Certainly  our  menace  had  not  the 
power  of  Napier's  order,  for  we  were  sent  again 
to  Gaza,  to  carry  those  wretched  troops  to  Da- 
mietta. 

We  landed  at  Gaza  after  thirty  hours*  sail. 
The  bay  of  Gaza  is  veiy  dangerous  for  a  sliip ; 


there  is  no  harbor,  nothing  to  secure  one  from 
the  north  and  east  winds.  Near  the  sea-shore 
is  an  old  fortress  falling  in  ruins,  built  by  Bona- 
parte on  his  way  to  Syria.  The  city  of  Gaza  is 
like  a  small  and  dirty  village  of  the  Alps,  and 
lies  six  miles  from  the  sea.  When  I  landed  with 
twenty  men,  all  well  armed  witli  dispatches  for 
the  Bey,  we  could  find  on  our  road  nothing  but 
human  corpses,  and  dead  horses  and  camels  all 
putrefied.  When  we  reached  the  camp,  we 
were  furnished  with  horses  and  a  guide  to  con- 
duct us  to  the  city.  There  were  not  less  than 
4000  persons  encamped  on  the  plain — men, 
women,  children,  all  deprived  of  food  and  living 
on  grass  or  dead  horses !  The  Oriental  plague 
and  other  sicknesses  still  continued  to  decimate 
the  population,  while  others  were  dying  of 
starvation  and  thirst.  The  Bey  received  me 
and  my  men  with  great  honor  and  courtesy ; 
we  drank  coffee  and  smoked  tobacco,  and  he 
took  me  to  see  where  was  once  the  famous  tem- 
ple of  the  Philistines,  destroyed  by  the  hercu- 
lean force  of  Samson.  He  asked  me  if  we 
could  take  twelve  hundred  persons  on  board. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  I.  "  If  they  were 
flocks  of  sheep,  we  could  place  tliem  in  any- 
where ;  but  sick  people  require  some  com- 
fortable place,  and  sufficient  room." 

"  Do  not  be  so  humane,"  added  the  Bey  ;  "  if 
you  had  to  remain  here  longer  you  would  be- 
come accustomed,  I  do  not  say  to  be  cruel,  but 
to  be  more  indifferent  to  suffering.  If  you 
refuse  to  take  those  people  on  board,  they  will 
die  here  soon.  They  can  find  no  more  water  or 
grass.  I  have  no  food  for  them.  It  is  better 
that  they  die  at  sea  than  to  let  their  bodies  re- 
main exposed  to  the  vultures  of  the  desert." 

With  all  his  Oriental  morals  the  Bey  could 
not  persuade  me  to  take  twelve  hundred  persons 
on  board.  I  allowed  him  to  send  eight  hundred, 
and  I  promised  him  that  we  would  return  in 
two  days  to  take  the  rest. 

The  same  day  an  Egyptian  vessel  came  from 
Alexandria,  laden  with  orge  and  biscuit. 
When  it  was  distributed  to  these  unhappy 
people,  I  imagined  myself  in  the  valley  of 
Jehoshaphat,  in  the  day  of  tlie  universal  re- 
surrection. Those  who  could  go  to  receive 
their  food  were  like  hungry  tigers,  and  there 
began  a  tremendous  fight  among  them. 

On  the  morning  of  the  8th  of  February  we 
embarked  those  unfortunate  beings.  Many  of 
them,  tortured  by  thirst,  while  on  their  way  to 
our  vessel  tried  to  drink  salt  water  to  assuage 
their  sufferings.      When  on  board,  our  captain 


SCENES  AND  ADVTIXTURES  IN  THE  EAST. 


167 


placed  two  men  at  the  pumps  to  prevent  them 
drinking  too  much  water  at  once :  but  alas ! 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  them  away.  Many 
preferred  to  receive  blows  from  their  officers 
rather  than  leave  the  water;  others  died  in- 
stantly, after  hanng  drank  a  few  drops.  The 
most  pitiful  sight  was  to  behold  the  women 
who  had  children  at  their  dried  breasts,  or  their 
husbands,  in  the  impcesibility  to  go  for  them- 
selves to  the  pumps.  I  saw  many  of  these  fe- 
males, without  anything  to  carry  water  in,  fill 
their  mouths  full,  and  throw  it,  drop  by  drop,  into 
the  mouths  of  their  invalid  husbands  !  We  could 
hear  nothing  but  cries  and  groans — the  weak 
and  lamentable  voices  of  the  dying,  tortured  by 
wounds  and  other  illnesses.  Their  sufferings 
were  indescribable.  The  captain,  fearing  mu- 
tiny among  them,  required  all  their  arms  to  be 
given  up ;  and  he  gave  orders  that  all  the  crew, 
well  armed,  should  keep  watch  over  them  till 
we  arrived  at  Damietta.  But  no  mutiny  was 
to  be  feared  from  those  dying  passengers !  When 
it  was  discovered  that  many  of  them  were  at- 
tacked by  the  Oriental  plague,  they  were  thrown 
overboard.  Our  crew  unanimously  asked  the 
captain  to  land  these  people  again,  or  to  give 
his  word  of  honor  that  they  should  not  return 
with  the  vessel  to  Gaza,  but  sail  for  Alexan- 
dria. Had  not  the  captain  had  influence  over 
them  by  his  bravery  and  affection,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  a  horrible  4iuman  butchery  would 
have  occurred  on  board.  The  captain  said  that 
he  himself  had  been  deceived  by  our  consul — 
that  he  should  leave  the  vessel  when  in  Alexan- 
dria, rather  than  continue  this  dangerous  and 
lamentable  v(^age.  All  was  now  quiet,  silent, 
and  mournful  in  our  steamer;  every  moment 
new  victims  were  thrown  into  the  sea;  and 
more  than  two  hundred  of  the  Egyptians  per- 
ished in  our  short  voyage  to  Damietta. 

Our  arrival  in  Alexandria  was  looked  upon 
with  suspicion.  Mehemet  Ali  sent  orders  that 
we  should  not  leave  the  vessel  nor  go  on  shore, 
as  we  had  refused  to  return  to  Gaza,  onr  first 
destination.  Notwithstanding  the  insolent  com- 
mand of  the  Pasha,  our  captain  left  the  vessel 
with  his  baggage,  and  we  never  heard  from  him 
again.  He  went  to  Leghorn  with  a  French 
steamer. 

Here  a  new  conspiracy  was  plotted  :  we  de- 
cided, one  and  all,  to  leave  the  vessel,  and  to 
put  ourselves  under  the  protection  of  the  French 
consul.  I  wrote  to  the  Pasha,  with  the  signa- 
tures of  all  the  crew,  that  we  had  no  orders  to 
receive  from  his  highness :  that  we  were  Ital- 


ians, were  under  the  Tuscan  flag,  and  could  obey 
no  one  but  our  captain ;  and  as  the  captain  had 
sailed  for  Italy,  we  had  no  longer  a  chief.  "  We 
decline,"  said  I,  "  to  acknowledge  the  Tuscan 
consul  as  our  protector ;  and  now  we  are  going 
to  ask  the  protection  of  tlie  French  and  English 
consuls." 

The  same  day  we  left  tlie  vessel.  Of  all  the 
crew  only  an  Austrian  oflicer  remained  on 
board.  He  was  our  Judas.  Our  first  visit  was 
to  the  French  consul.  We  explained  to  him 
the  causes  of  our  complaints — to  what  evils  we 
had  been  exposed  for  eighteen  months — how 
barbarously  we  had  been  treated  and  deceived 
by  our  consul — that  we  had  not  received  any 
money  for  eight  months,  and  we  required  to  be 
returned  to  our  country.  The  French  consul 
promised  us  his  protection,  and  advised  us  to 
return  to  our  vessel. 

I  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  friend  Ali  Bey, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  ten  months ;  but 
thinking,  in  the  meantime,  only  of  Lida,  the 
Greek  slave — of  her  exquisite  beauty  and  me- 
lodious voice.  I  must  avow  that  I  was  still  a 
strong  abolitionist ;  that  I  thought  of  a  thousand 
means  to  carry  away  Lida  from  Ali  Bey's  se- 
raglio ;  and  I  hoped  to  succeed. 

It  was  on  a  Friday  morning,  just  the  hour 
when  all  good  Mussulmans  go  to  pray  to  Allah, 
when  I  went  to  Ali  Bey's  house.  The  little 
Alim  Azib  was  in  the  door,  and  scarcely  had 
he  seen  me  before  he  came  forward,  bowing 
with  joy,  and  kissed  both  my  hands.  He  told 
me  that  Ali  Bey  was  at  Cairo  on  business ;  that 
\  the  old  negro  eunuch  had  died  of  the  Oriental 
plague,  and  gone  to  see  Allah,  with  the  Great 
Prophet.  Lida,  since  my  first  visit  to  the 
harem,  had  become  pale  and  dull — had  lost  her 
appetite,  and  wept  day  and  night.  "  When 
she  is  before  Ali  Bey,"  added  Alim  Azib,  "  she 
tries  to  appear  gay  and  cheerful.  Now  she 
seems  to  be  no  more  the  sparkling  star  of  the 
seraglio ;  she  sighs  all  day,  and  remains  long 
hours  to  see  the  vessels  coming  from  the  sea." 

All  this  history  was  a  suflScient  matter  to 
excite  the  imagination  of  a  young  man  twenty 
years  old.  I  now  became  a  Platonic  lover — 
full  of  compassion,  and  desire  to  save  that  un- 
fortunate one.  Although  I  could  not  trust 
Alim  Azib  for  his  maUcious  look,  I  asked  him 
if  he  knew  the  cause  of  her  sorrows. 

"  Your  first  visit  to  the  seragho,"  answered 
the  Arab  boy  audaciously ;  "  that  is  all.  You 
know  that  she  is  a  Greek  girl,  an  eternal  enemy 
to  our  nation,  and  follower,  Uke  you,  of  the  infi- 


168 


SCENES     AND    ADVENTURES    IN    THE     EAST. 


dol's  religion.  She  told  me  her  troubles  ;  and 
more  than  that,  I  have  in  my  possession  a  letter 
that  would  send  her,  tied  up  in  a  bag,  to  take  a 
bath  in  tlie  bottom  of  the  sea." 

It  was  a  letter  directed  to  me,  and  written 
in  the  most  pure  and  poetical  Greek  lan- 
guage !  She  asked  me  to  rescue  her  from  her 
elavery;  and  said  that  she  would  be  forever 
my  faithful  servant,  as  Mirra  was  to  Sardanap- 
alus.  "  Let  me  see  once  more,"  said  she,  in 
her  letter,  "  the  blue  sky  of  Greece,  all  my  sor- 
rows will  soon  disappear.  Come,  take  me  with 
you,  wherever  you  like  :  Lida  Hesperus  will  be 
always  at  your  side.  Oh  !  love  me,  pity  me, 
young  Italian.  Answer  me  ;  let  me  know  my 
destiny,  and  what  is  your  intention." 

Alim  Azib  took  me  into  a  room  of  the  house 
where  I  could  be  unperceived  and  out  of  dan- 
ger. Although  I  was  armed  from  head  to  foot, 
yet  I  began  to  think  seriously  of  my  dangerous 
situation  ;  but  the  presence  of  Lida  soon  made 
all  my  fears  disappear.  There  we  were  alone, 
only  before  Alim.  She  uncovered  her  lovely 
face,  and  threw  herself  on  my  neck  ;  and  weep- 
ing, besought  me  to  fly  with  her  from  Ali  Bey's 
seraglio.  Her  shoulders  were  covered  only  by 
her  long  golden  hair ;  and  around  her  neck,  as 
white  as  alabaster,  she  had  a  beautiful  string 
of  pearls  and  coral.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling 
and  black,  her  mouth  small,  and  her  lips  rosy. 
She  had  a  handsome  figure,  a  tall  and  majestic 
form  ;  indeed,  was  a  true  likeness  of  what  we 
might  suppose  Sappho,  the  poetess  of  Lesbos,  to 
have  been. 

We  fixed  on  the  next  day  as  the  time  for  our 
flight.  I  was  to  send  there  some  clothes  by  my 
washerwoman,  a  Christian  negro  ;  and  Lida, 
dressed  in  European  style,  was  to  leave  the 
house  and  meet  me  near  the  Franco  Square. 
Thus  we  seprated,  to  meet  again  on  the  next 
fatal  day. 

Immediately  after  I  left  Lida  I  was  attacked 
with  a  severe  inflammation  of  the  eyes,  which 
became  so  painful  tliat  I  despaired  of  ever  re- 
gaining my  sight.  The  physician  ordered  me 
to  remain  shut  in  a  dark  room,  and  not  to  ex- 
pone  myself  to  the  light  for  several  days.  Think 
what  could  be  my  situation  and  despair  !    I  re- 


proached myself  for  having  been  so  imprudent 
and  hasty  in  my  determination  to  carry  away 
Lida  from  her  master,  and  thus  expose  her  to 
more  evils,  and  perhaps  to  death.  I  spent  the 
whole  night  in  the  most  terrible  state  of  mind. 
I  could  not  be  present  at  our  rendezvous,  nor 
could  I  find  any  way  to  let  Lida  know  of  my 
sudden  sickness.  In  the  morning,  at  last,  I 
sent  for  my  washerwoman  :  she  came,  and 
promised  me,  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Virgin, 
to  take  Lida,  unknown,  to  my  hotel.  The 
hours  were  like  long  and  eternal  days  to  me.  I 
feared  that  she  would  be  discovered,  and  arrest- 
ed ;  but  towatds  evening,  1  heard  some  people 
at  my  door,  all  being  darkness  around  me ; 
and  soon  Lida's  voice  assured  me  of  her 
safety. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  care  and  attention  of 
the  unfortunate  and  lovely  Lida  during  my 
sickness.  She  watched  me  day  and  night  ; 
and  I  owe  the  recovery  of  my  sight,  under 
God,  jbo  her  kind  assistance. 

Four  days  after  the  flight  of  Lida,  Ali  Bey 
returned  from  Cairo.  The  devil  was  in  the 
house  and  in  the  city ;  the  irritated  Mussulman 
was  looking  everywhere  for  that  unfortunate 
slave.  Had  I  been  able,  we  would  have  sailed 
for  Athens,  in  an  English  steamer ;  but,  alas  ! 
I  had  to  be  the  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes. 
The  lady  of  the  hotel — a  very  religious  and 
Catholic  woman — had  concealed  Lida  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  house ;  but  Alim  Azib,  after 
having  received  fifty  blows  on  his  feet,  told 
Ali  Bey  where  and  with  whom  Lida  had  de- 
camped. 

The  poor  Lida  was  found,  and  taken  back 
to  the  seraglio,  and  dreadfully  beaten ;  and 
I,  after  having  been  well  chained,  was  conduct- 
ed to  the  Tuscan  consul,  in  order  that  he  might 
give  me  into  the  hands  of  the  Egyptian  govern- 
ment. 

Had  not  the  janissaries  of  the  consul  inter- 
fered, the  soldiers  of  Ali  Bey  would  have  butch- 
ered me  while  going  to  the  consulship.  I  do 
not  remember  how  many  blows  I  received  from 
them ;  I  had  no  time  at  that  moment  to  keep  a 
particular  account. 


r.artlott.A 


'^^>//y//j7''/://u.j    /f-//^- 


SIEGE  AND  HEROIC  DEFENCE  OF  BALSILLE. 


169 


Umi^  AMID  IHIISKDS®  IDIgTOM(BI§  ©IP  IBAIL^ITILEjIg. 


We  spoke  in  our  last  article  of  the  safe  return 
of  the  Waldenses  to  their  native  valleys.  But 
though  they  had  overcome  all  opposition,  and 
again  reared  their  altars  in  their  ancient  places, 
their  troubles  and  dangers  were  not  yet  over. 
Their  powerful  enemies  resolved  to  make  one 
last  great  effort  for  their  overthrow.  For  this 
purpose  the  French  king  formed  an  alliance  with 
the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  their  combined  troops,  to 
the  number  oi  twenty-tico  thousand  men,  marched 
into  the  Waldensian  coimtry.  Against  this 
overwhelming  force  the  pastor  and  leader,  Ar- 
naud,  could  muster  but  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  men.  Trusting,  however,  in  that  God 
who  had  thus  far  protected  and  saved  him,  he 
boldly  resolved  with  his  mere  handful  of  peasants 
to  withstand  this  army  of  veteran  troops.  It 
was  useless  to  attempt  an  open  warfare  in  the 
valleys,  and  so  he  withdrew  his  band  to  the 
impregnable  rock  of  Balsille,  and  began  to  cast 
up  intrenchments.  This  rock,  as  presented  in 
the  engraving,  rises  in  the  form  of  a  cone  from 
the  valley  of  Macel,  or  rather  at  the  angle 
where  two  valleys  unite.  It  consists  of  several 
precipices,  rising  one  above  another,  whose 
edges  are  fringed  with  scattered  pine  trees,  that 
give  a  still  greater  wildness  to  the  savage  scene. 
The  approach  to  it  is  through  a  fearful  gorge, 
where  a  few  brave  men  could  keep  at  bay  ten 
times  their  number.  Into  this  fortress  of  nature 
the  weary  exiles  cast  themselves,  with  the  stern 
resolve  to  conquer  or  leave  their  bones  to  be 
picked  by  the  mountain  vultures.  Their  case 
seemed  a  hopeless  one,  and  their  long  journey 
and  battles  and  hardships  were  apparently 
about  to  end  in  utter  extermination.  So  con- 
fident were  the  enemy  of  victory,  that  they 
brought  along  executioners  and  halters  w^ith 
which  to  hang  up  the  captives. 

What  a  sublime  spectacle  did  that  rock  then 
present  in  the  dead  of  winter !  All  over  its 
massive  form  liung  the  snow-drifts,  here  and 
there  relieved  by  the  dark  edge  of  a  precipice, 


or  the  dwarf  pine  trees  that  rocked  and  roared  in 
the  Alpine  blast ;  while  in  caves  they  had  exca- 
vated in  the  heart  of  the  mountain — living  on 
roots  and  herbs  which  they  dug  from  under  the 
snow — lay  three  hundred  and  sixty-seven  brave 
Christians,  ready  to  die  for  their  altars  and 
their  homes.  Like  mere  insects  they  hung 
along  that  precipitous  height,  while  the  thou- 
sands of  their  enemies  were  crowded  in  a  dark 
mass  below.  Shut  out  from  the  world  around 
them,  exposed  to  all  the  severity  of  an  Alpine 
winter  and  all  the  horrors  of  famine,  they 
dragged  out  the  weary  months  sustained  by 
that  lofty  faith  and  heroism  which  have  made 
the  martyr  and  patriot  of  every  age.  But  they 
were  not  idle :  every  precaution  was  taken  and 
every  defence  made  in  their  power.  They  dug 
themselves  eighty  holes  in  the  earth  for  houses, 
each  surrounded  with  a  gutter,  to  carry  off  the 
water,  and  then  commenced  their  fortifications. 
On  the  Sabbath  they  assembled  on  a  small  flat, 
near  what  was  called  the  castle,  (the  spot  where 
they  made  tlieir  first  stand,)  and  had  divine 
worship — Amaud  preaching  them  two  sermons. 
Every  week  day  also  he  assembled  them  morn- 
ing and  evening  for  prayers.  In  the  morning, 
at  early  daylight,  these  bold  men  wotild  gather 
together,  and  kneeling  on  the  cold  earth  with 
their  heads  bowed  between  their  knees,  listen 
reverently  to  the  prayers  of  tlieir  pastor,  and 
then  seize  the  spade  and  axe  and  labor  till  night 
on  the  intrenchments.  They  made  a  succession 
of  breastworks,  seventeen  in  number,  each 
higher  up  the  rock  than  the  other,  so  that  when 
driven  from  one  they  could  retire  to  another^ 
until  they  reached  the  sharp  summit,  where 
they  had  resolved  one  and  all  to  die. 

The  French  and  soldiers  of  tlie  Duke,  when 
they  saw  how  strongly  the  Waldenses  were  in- 
trenched, hesitated  to  attack  them,  and  finally 
contented  themselves  with  hemming  them  in, ' 
hoping  that  the  severe  winter  and  famine  would 
force  them  to  surrender.     But  they  bore  their 


170 


SIEGE  AND  DEFENCE  OF  BALSILLE. 


privations  and  sufferings  without  a  murmur, 
and  still  clung  to  their  dens  amid  the  snow- 
drifts and  cliffs  of  tlieir  mountain  rock,  with 
their  first  purpose  to  conquer  or  die. 

At  length  spring  opened,  and  the  enemy,  see- 
ing no  prospect  of  discouraging  or  starving  out 
the  exiles,  resolved  to  storm  their  intrench- 
ments.  So,  on  the  Sabbath  morning  of  the  last 
of  April,  1690,  they  put  their  troops  in  motion, 
and  began  to  enter  the  defiles  that  led  to  the 
first  barricade.  There  was  but  one  way  of 
access  to  the  castle,  as  it  was  called,  and  that 
was  by  a  torrent  which  had  cut  a  natural  pas- 
sage through  the  rocks.  This  Arnaud's  prac- 
ticed eye  soon  discovered,  and  he  paid  particu- 
lar attention  to  it.  He  planted  there  strong 
palisades,  working  upon  them  with  his  own 
hands,  and  raised  parapets  of  wall.  He  also 
laid  down  trees,  with  the  bushy  tops  towards 
the  enemy.  On  these  he  rolled  a  layer  of 
rocks  to  keep  them  down,  and  on  the  rocks 
another  layer  of  trees,  and  so  on,  until  an  al- 
most insurmountable  breastwork  was  reared. 
As  the  enemy  approached,  the  Waldenses  open- 
ed their  fire  with  terrible  effect,  which  caused 
them  to  retire.  At  length  it  was  resolved  to  pick 
out  five  hundred  men,  and  with  them  carry  the 
first  barricade  by  assault. 

In  close  and  firm  order  this  noble  body  of 
men,  sustained  by  a  still  larger  body  of  peas- 
ants, moved  forward  under  cover  of  a  terrible 
snow  storm,  which  filled  the  air  like  a  driving 
mist,  until  within  close  musket-shot,  when  they 
halted  and  delivered  their  fire,  then  with  a  loud 
shout  sprang  forward  with  the  bayonet.  They 
imagined  they  could  pull  away  the  trees  by  the 
tops,  and  thus  open  a  passage,  but  the  rocks 
held  tliem  fast.  Thus  brought  breast  to  breast 
with  the  Waldenses,  the  fire  of  the  latter  could 
be  delivered  with  horrible  effect,  as  indeed  it 
was.  The  muzzles  of  their  guns  almost  touched 
the  bosoms  of  their  foes,  and  when  the  word 
"  Fire !"  rang  along  the  breastwork,  a  volley 
opened  that  laid  the  front  rank  dead  at  its  base. 
The  second  rank,  however,  stepped  bravely  in 
the  blood  of  their  comrades,  and  with  loud 
huzzas  pressed  onward  ;  but  that  same  tempest 
of  fire  smote  them  down.  The  Waldenses 
were  divided  in  two  portions,  one  of  which  in 
the  rear  loaded  the  muskets,  while  those  in 
front  discharged  them.  This  made  the  firing 
more  constant  and  terrible — it  was  a  continual 
blaze  there  in  the  snow-storm,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  bullets,  which  rained  in  an  incessant 
shower  on  the  devoted  heads  of  the  assailants. 


The  latter,  however,  bore  bravely  up  till  more 
than  two-thirds  of  their  entire  number  lay 
stretched  on  the  rocks  and  amid  the  snow,  and 
were  still  striving  desperately  to  stem  the  fiery 
torrent,  when  the  Waldenses  sallied  forth  and 
fell  on  them  with  such  fury  that  all  order  was 
lost,  and  the  fight  became  a  slaughter.  But  a 
small  band,  without  hats  or  arms,  of  all  that 
brave  detachment,  were  left  to  bear  to  the  army 
the  news  of  their  sad  overthrow,  while  not  a 
single  Waldensian  was  killed  or  wounded. 

Darkness  and  the  storm  finally  shut  in  the 
scene,  and  all  was  still  save  the  groans  of  the 
wounded.  The  next  morning  Arnaud  assem- 
bled his  little  band  for  prayers,  and  tears  of  joy 
accompanied  their  morning  thanksgiving.  After 
prayers  they  cut  off  the  heads  of  the  dead,  and 
stuck  them  on  poles  which  they  planted  on  the 
palisades,  to  show  the  enemy  that  they  had  cut 
themselves  loose  from  mercy,  and  neither  asked 
nor  expected  pardon. 

The  French,  overwhelmed  by  this  great  dis- 
aster, broke  up  their  encampment  the  next  day, 
and  retired  over  the  borders  of  France.  On 
that  very  day  Arnaud  preached  a  sermon,  which 
was  delivered  and  received  with  flowing  tears. 

But  the  enemy  had  not  abandoned  their  de- 
signs, and  on  the  10th  of  May  again  marched 
back  and  invested  the  rock  of  Balsille.  In  long 
and  glistening  array  the  steady  columns  wound 
through  the  deep  defiles,  while  the  roll  of  a 
hundred  drums  and  the  prolonged  blasts  of  the 
trumpet  made  the  rocks  above  the  Waldenses 
ring  with  echoes.  Having  learned  wisdom 
from  their  previous  failure,  the  enemy  advanced 
with  more  caution,  and  investing  the  place  on 
every  side,  began  to  erect  redoubts  and  mount 
their  cannon.  The  batteries  soon  opened,  and 
it  rained  an  iron  storm  on  the  works  of  the 
Waldenses.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  they  made 
gradual  approaches,  by  sending  forward  sol- 
diers protected  by  fascines  and  sacks  of  wool, 
who  erected  parapets  in  closer  proximity  to  the 
Waldenses.  The  latter,  having  no  artillery, 
could  not  prevent  these  approaches  nor  beat 
down  the  parapets  when  raised,  and  hence 
were  compelled  to  witness  the  circle  of  fire 
growing  narrower  around  them  every  day. 
They  made  sally  after  sally,  but  were  compelled 
to  retire  before  the  superior  force  of  their  enemy. 
In  a  short  time  they  found  themselves  entirely 
surrounded.  The  French  commander  having 
planted  his  cannon  so  as  to  completely  uncover 
the  Waldenses,  hailed  them  through  a  trumpet 
and  sent  a  flag  of  truce,  offering  them,  in  the 


SIEGE  AND  DEFENCE  OF  BALSILLE. 


171 


name  of  the  King  of  France,  free  permission 
to  leave  the  country,  if  they  would  retire  with- 
out further  resistance.  To  this  summons  the 
Waldenses  returned  the  following  heroic  reply : 
"  Messieurs,  the  answer  we  have  to  make  is, 
that  not  being  subjects  of  the  French  King, 
and  that  monarch  not  being  master  of  this 
country,  we  cannot  treat  with  any  of  your 
gentlemen  ;  and  being  in  the  heritages  which 
our  fathers  have  left  us  from  time  out  of  mind, 
we  hope,  by  the  help  of  Him  who  is  the  God  of 
hosts,  to  live  in  them  and  die  in  tliem,  one  and 
all,  even  though  there  should  be  but  ten  of  vs 
left.  If  your  cannon  fire,  our  rocks  loill  not  be 
frightened  at  it,  and  we  will  hear  them  roar." 

Bravely  said,  bold  exiles  !  the  God  of  hosts 
will  help  and  send  deliverance. 

The  cannon  then  opened  with  a  terrific  up- 
roar, together  with  the  small  arms,  till  that  old 
rock  trembled  under  the  incessant  explosions. 
Still  the  Waldenses  did  not  shrink  from  their 
high  purpose,  and  replied  with  their  feeble  vol- 
leys.    Before  noon  the  French  had  fired  a  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  rounds  of  artillery,  and  a 
hundred  thousand  musket  shots.     The  feeble 
intrenchments  of  the  Waldenses  melted  away 
like   frost-work  before    this  tremendous  fire. 
[Inge  gaps  were  opened  in  the  walls,  and  the 
next  day  was  fixed  upon  by  the  enemy  for  a 
grand  assault,  at  three  diflTerent  points.    Arnaud 
saw  at  a  glance  that  his  feeble  band  could  not 
in  their  uncovered  state  sustain  a  general  as- 
sault, and  so  ordered  them  to  retire  by  night  to 
an  intrenchment  farther  up  the  rock.     This, 
however,  was  found  to  be  impossible,  for  the 
French    had    completely    hemmed    them    in. 
There  was  but  one  way  of  escape^  and  that 
was  down  the  mountain  over  a  frightful  preci- 
pice, and  within  sure  striking  distance  of  the 
enemy's  guards.     It  was  impossible  to  carry 
out  their  first  resolution  and  make  their  last 
desperate  stand  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  for  the 
enemy  had  got  possession  of  it  above  their  heads. 
Thus  encompassed  and  uncovered,  they  could 
only  turn  to  the  God  who  had  thus  far  defended 
them ;  and  again  he  appeared  for  their  deliver- 
ance by  sending  at  night  a  dense  fog  which 
completely  concealed  the  movements  of  the 
besieged.     Under  cover  of  it  they  filed  oj^t  of 
their  intrenchments,  and  began  to  slide  down 
the  precipices.     If  for  a  moment  the  fog  lifted 
before  the  night's  wind,  they  would  fall  flat  on 
their  faces  till  it  again  settled  on  the  breast  of 
the  mountain.     With  their  shoes  oflT  to  deaden 
the  sound,  and  at  the  same  time  make  secure 


their  footing,  they  made  their  perilous  way — 
now  letting  themselves  down  a  ledge,  and  now 
crawling  through  a  ravine,  and  at  times  so  near 
to  the  sentinels  that  the  slightest  motion  of  the 
latter  could  be  distinctly  heard.  At  length  one 
of  the  Waldenses  let  a  kettle  drop  from  his 
hand  and  roll  down  the  precipice.  As  it  went 
jingling  and  rattling  by  a  sentinel,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Wlio  goes  there  ?"  byt  the  kettle  making  no 
reply,  and  soon  ceasing  its  noise  altogether,  he 
turned  again  to  his  drowsy  watch.  The  fugi- 
tives in  the  meantime  had  descended  into  the 
ravine  at  the  bottom,  and  by  steps  cut  in  the 
snow  ascended  the  opposite  precipice ;  and  when 
the  fog  lifted  befqre  the  morning  sun  and  rolled 
away  over  the  Alpine  heights,  the  French  com- 
mander saw  with  indignation  and  astonishment 
the  little  band  he  had  made  such  immense 
sacrifices  to  capture  winding  rapidly  around  the 
crest  of  the  opposite  mountain.  He  immediately 
ordered  out  a  detachment  in  pursuit,  but  the 
prey  had  escaped. 

Various  skirmishes  after  this  occurred  be- 
tween the  Waldenses  and  detachments  of  the 
French  ;  but  at  length  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
quarreling  with  the  King  of  France,  the  former 
sought  the  aid  of  his  subjects  whom  he  had 
persecuted  and  driven  from  their  homes.  The 
Waldenses  received  his  proposals  of  an  alli- 
ance with  joy,  and  fought  as  bravely  under 
their  unjust  prince  as  they  had  dwie  for  them- 
selves. As  a  reward  for  their  services,  their 
country  was  restored  to  them.  Still  as  Prot- 
estants they  were  subjected  to  various  restric- 
tions, and  burdened  down  with  heavy  taxes. 

When  Bonaparte  undertook  the  conquest  of 
Piedmont,  they  rallied  bravely  around  their 
prince,  and  were  the  last  to  yield.  Notwith- 
standing their  stubborn  resistance,  Bonaparte 
after  his  conquest  removed  all  the  odious  re- 
strictions under  which  they  had  suffered,  abol- 
ished the  tax  for  the  support  of  the  Catholic 
priesthood,  and  let  them  appropriate  their  funds 
for  tlie  support  of  their  own  pastors,  and  gave 
them  every  right  guaranteed  to  a  Catholic  sub- 
ject. After  his  downfall  they  simk  under  their 
old  oppression,  in  which  they  languish  at  the 
present  day. 

Thus  have  we  gone  over  a  few  of  the  most 
striking  incidents  in  the  Waldensian  history. 
Every  candid  reader  must  acknowledge  that  it 
is  marked  by  extraordinary  events,  such  as 
have  attended  no  people  since  the  Israelites 
performed  their  miraculous  journey  to  the  land 
of  Canaan. 


172 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


FAflHIim   AM®   KDAWlilSI'flgl. 


A  VILLAGE  SKETCH. 


EsQums  W -,  as  he  was  called  by  all  his 

neighbors,  had  been  out  of  health  for  a  year 
and  a  half.  He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty 
years  of  age;  and  up  to  the  period  of  the 
attack  of  his  present  sickness,  had  never  needed 
the  care  of  a  physician  for  a  single  day.  He 
had  been  a  remarkably  robust  and  healthy 
man ;  and  in  his  occupation  as  a  farmer,  had 
collected  a  large  property,  and  was  the  richest 
man  in  the  vicinity. 

'Squire  W felt  the  full  consequence  of 

his  wealth,  in  a  world  where  all  men  worship 
money  ;  and  although  he  was  a  kind  man  and 
very  hospitable,  yet  he  felt  above  the  most  of 
his  neighbors,  and  his  family  visited  in  but  few 
houses  around  them.  Their  pride  and  distance 
made  them  all  unpopular ;  and  they  were  rather 
the  objects  of  ridicule  for  their  hauglitiness, 
than  respected  for  their  wealth. 

A  slight  cold,  the  result  of  exposure,  was  the 
origin  of  his  illness.  At  first  there  was  no 
severity  in  the  disease  ;  and  indeed  throughout 
its  whole  course,  he  did  not  take  to  his  bed  till 
the  week  before  he  died.  It  had  come  on 
gradually  ;  each  step  so  short  and  impercepti- 
ble, that  he  was  not  aware  of  his  being  really 
sick  for  some  months.  Then  his  extreme 
paleness,  noticed  by  his  family  first,  led  him  to 
think  of  other  symptoms,  such  as  a  shortness  of 
breath  and  palpitation  of  his  heart,  occurring  in 
consequence  of  slight  exercise  or  sudden  agita- 
tion of  mind,  which  he  had  often  noticed  be- 
fore, but  did  not  regard  as  indications  of  disease. 
They  slowly  increased  in  severity,  or  rather  in 
amount,  till  he  found  that  he  could  not  work  as 
formerly ;  and  he  was  eventually  obliged  to 
relinquish  labor  altogether,  and  in  fact  to  be 
exceedingly  careful  in  taking  his  daily  exercise, 
which  often  brought  on  alarming  attacks  of 
fainting.  His  appetite  continued  good ;  and 
after  a  time  there  was  no  apparent  accession 


of  his  complaint,  so  that  he  was  rather  sur- 
prised at  his  condition  than  alarmed ;  though 
at  the  urgency  of  his  family,  who  had  become 
anxious  on  his  account,  a  neighboring  physi- 
cian was  called  in,  who  continued  to  attend 
him  regularly  for  several  months.  But  no 
change  took  place  for  the  better  or  worse. 

I  said  it  was  a  year  and  a  half  since  his  first 
indisposition.  About  that  time,  for  the  first,  he 
experienced  an  attack  apparently  unconnected 
with  his  previous  disease,  which  brought  him 
to  his  bed.  It  was  however  but  a  new  devel- 
opment of  symptoms,  which  continued  for  five 
days,  when  they  seemed  to  give  way ;  and  feel- 
ing better,  he  dressed  himself,  and  walked 
about  his  dooryard.  The  fatigue  of  the  slight 
exertion  however  overpowered  him,  and  about 
eleven  o'clock  at  night  he  fainted  ;  and  at  this 
time  I  saw  him  in  connection  with  his  attending 
physician. 

I  am  always  unwilling  to  place  my  own 
judgment  in  opposition  to  that  of  another  who 
has  had  more  full  opportunities  for  forming  an 
opinion  ;  but  in  this  case  I  was  convinced  that 
the  disease  had  been  misapprehended,  and  con- 
sequently, not  correctly  treated.  But  it  was 
now  too  late.  It  was  evidently  gathering  itself 
up,  and  making  its  last  and  final  assault  upon 
the  seat  of  life. 

This  opinion  I  expressed  candidly  to  the 
attending  physician,  and  my  conviction  that 
the  patient  would  experience  frequent  attacks 
of  this  kind,  if  he  continued  to  live,  but  that 
he  might  expire  in  the  first  one.  It  was  proper 
that>this  should  be  communicated  to  him ;  and 
we  entered  his  room  for  that  purpose.  As  we 
took  our  seats  by  his  bed,  he  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  to  have  given  you 
tliis  trouble.  I  was  unwilling  to  have  you 
called  out  at  this  time  of  night,  and  wished  the 
family  to  wait  till  morning;  but  they  were  viry 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


173 


mucL  iiMrnied,  though  I  think  without  any 
cause,  and  sent  for  you  at  once.  I  feel  much 
better  now — as  well,  indeed,  as  I  have  felt  for 
some  months." 

And  he  sat  up  in  bed  to  take  the  draught 
which  was  presented  him  at  that  moment.  His 
breathing  was  short  and  quick,  and  his  pulse 
almost  imperceptible,  while  his  paleness,  or 
rather  the  utterly  bloodless  hue  of  his  counte- 
nance, was,  if  possible,  much  increased.  I 
stated  to  him  my  opinion  of  his  case,  which,  to 
my  surprise,  seemed  to  make  no  impression 
upon  him. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  was  his  cool 
reply.  "  But  if  such  should  be  the  fact,  I  am 
perfectly  ready.  I  have  never  done  an  act  for 
which  I  am  not  prepared  to  give  an  account 
when  called  upon." 

Shocked  at  his  reply,  I  bade  liim  good  night, 
and  left  him  in  the  care  of  my  associate,  whom 
I  agreed  to  meet  the  ne.xt  morning  at  nine 
o'clock. 

I  know  no  character  so  repulsive  as  tliat  of 
the  man,  who,  as  the  close  of  an  earthly  and 
godless  life  approaches — a  life  in  which  every 
thought  has  been  given  to  earth,  and  not  one  to 
Heaven,  save  to  boast  of  a  worthiness  and  read- 
iness which  no  mortal  possesses  in  himself — 
in  that  solemn  and  awful  hour  hugs  to  his  heart 
his  own  vain-glorious  purity,  and  proudly  tram- 
ples under  his  feet  the  only  hope  worthy  of  a 
sinful  man — the  hope  purchased  by  a  full 
atonement.  Who  is  ready  to  account  for  the 
least  of  all  his  deeds — who,  for  the  fact  that 
love  was  withheld  where  love  was  justly  de- 
manded, and  when  not  to  love  was  to  hate  ? 
How  awfully  self-condemned  must  that  naked 
spirit  stand  the  next  hour,  in  the  presence  of 
the  utter  holiness,  and  purity,  and  love  it  has 
so  long  and  so  haughtily  rejected  and  scorned  ? 

I  was  detained  an  hour  beyond  the  time  the 
next  morning,  by  professional  business.  It  was 
consequently  ten  o'clock  when  I  reached  the 
house  ;  and  the  carriage  of  the  attending  phy- 
sician was  at  the  door.  A  ser\ant-boy  stood 
by  the  gate,  and  as  I  alighted,  he  told  me  Mr. 

W was  dying.     I  hurried  into  the  house, 

and  went  directly  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying — 
of  the  dead  man.  He  had  just  expired  ;  and  I 
stood  in  a  scene  most  heart-rending. 

Through  the  night  he  had  seemed  to  revive 
considerably,  and  had  been  very  comfortable, 
having  slept  soundly  for  some  hours.  He 
awoke  in  the  morning  much  refreshed,  and  had 
taken  a  light  breakfast  about  nine  o'clock,  with 


his  whole  family  by  his  bedside.  Upon  the 
arrival  of  his  physician  he  conversed  freely, 
and  with  more  ease  and  strength  than  on  the 
previous  night,  and,  in  spite  of  all  remon- 
strances, insisted  upon  sitting  up.  He  refused 
assistance  in  rising,  only  allowing  his  wife  to 
hold  his  hand ;  and  when  he  stood  upon  his 
feet,  remarked  that  they  thought  him  much 
weaker  than  he  really  was.  The  words  were 
scarcely  uttered  before  he  fainted.  They  laid 
him  on  the  bed,  and,  when  I  entered,  were 
using  every  means  to  restore  him.  His  wife, 
in  tlie  midst  of  sobs  and  tears,  was  chafing  his 
hands,  yet  showing  plainly,  in  her  hopeless 
look,  her  conviction  that  all  was  over.  By  her 
side  stood  two  manly  sons,  as  if  petrified  by  the 
sudden  blow,  in  mute  sorrow  gazing  on  the 
form  that  they  too  felt  was  dead. 

But  the  saddest  part  of  the  scene  was  to  be 
witnessed  in  the  distress  of  the  daughter,  a 
lovely  girl,  of  about  sixteen  years.  She  was 
clinging  to  the  neck  of  her  father,  and  covering 
his  face  with  kisses,  which  were  only  inter- 
rupted by  her  earnest  exclamations  for  help. 

"  Father !  wake  up,  dear  father !  Why 
don't  you  do  something,  Doctor  ?  He  has  only 
fainted.  Do  something.  He  has  often  been  so 
before.  He  is  not  dead  ;  I  tell  you  he  has  only 
fainted,  and  will  come  out  of  it,  if  you  will  do 
something.  Don't  stand  so ;  )'ou  look  as  if 
you  think  he  is  dead ;  but  he  is  not — he  has 
only  fainted.  Oh,  try  to  bring  him  to !  Dear 
fatherj  don't  you  hear  me  ?" 

Poor  girl !  Her  eye  was  wild,  and  her  brain 
too.  Her  mother  said  to  me  through  her 
tears : 

"  What  do  you  think.  Doctor  ?" 

I  felt  of  his  pulse ;  and  a  slight  quivering 
motion,  which  I  found  under  my  finger,  made 
me  think  for  an  instant  that  there  was  still  hfe. 
I  laid  my  hand  upon  the  region  of  the  heart ; 
but  I  felt  no  motion  there.  Again  I  examined 
his  wrist,  and  thought  that  I  felt  the  same  flick- 
ering I  felt  before;  but  if  there  was  any,  it 
was  almost  immediately  gone ;  and  I  was  about 
to  declare  my  belief  that  he  was  dead,  when  the 
daughter  again  spoke : 

"  Why  don't  you  speak.  Doctor  ?  Say 
something !  You  do  not  think  he  is  dead  ?  I 
know  it  cannot  be  I  He  has  only  fainted ! 
Don't  you  think  so.  Doctor  ?" 

It  was  a  hard  task  to  destroy  the  hope  that 
still  lingered  in  the  brain  of  the  lovely  girl ; 
and  when  I  said  that  he  was  dead,  she  threw 
up  her  hands,  and,  with  a  wild  shriek,  fell 


174 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


heavily  and  senseless  upon  the  floor.  All  our 
care  and  attention  was  now  directed  to  her; 
and  for  some  time  it  was  doubtful  whether  she 
too  were  not  dead.  But  by  the  use  of  power- 
ful restoratives  she  gradually  revived,  and 
opened  her  eyes,  when  she  was  removed  to  an- 
other room  and  left  in  the  care  of  some  of  the 
neighboring  women  who  had  come  in. 

****** 

I  was  about  leaving  the  house,  when  Mrs. 
W.  requested  me  to  see  her  daughter  before 
I  went  I  followed  her,  and  found  the  young 
lady  sitting  up,  but  in  an  attitude,  and  with 
an  expression  of  countenance,  tliat  alarmed 
me.  She  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  side 
of  a  bed,  upon  which  rested  one  hand  in  an 
easy  and  graceful  position,  but  the  other  hand 
was  pressed  forcibly  upon  her  forehead,  as  if  to 
suppress  some  severe  pain.  Her  eye  had  much 
the  same  wild  appearance  which  it  had  when  I 
first  saw  her  hanging  on  the  neck  of  her  dead 
father ;  but  the  wildness  was  increased  to  an 
alarming  degree.  Yet  she  was  quiet,  neither 
moving  nor  uttering  a  word.  I  sat  down  beside 
her,  and  attempted  to  remove  her  hand  from  her 
head  ;  but  finding  that  she  resisted  the  attempt, 
I  desisted,  and  took  the  other,  which  she  suf- 
fered me  to  do  without  opposition.  Her  pulse 
was  not  excited,  but  beat  with  ordinary  regu- 
larity and  force.  What  was  the  meaning  of  her 
strange  appearance  ?  Had  I  believed  her  capa- 
ble of  such  a  thing,  I  might  have  suspected  lier 
of  counterfeiting  a  show  of  derangement.  But 
this  could  not  be.  Those  fixed  and  tearless 
eyes — that  unmoving  position,  maintained  with- 
out change,  and  without  apparent  effort — her 
whole  appearance,  in  fact,  seemed  to  tell  most 
plainly  that  her  mind  had  received  a  shock  too 
powerful  to  bear,  and  had  lost  its  balance. 

I  spoke  to  her,  when,  without  altering  her 
position  or  moving  her  eye,  she  said,  as  if  ad- 
dressing some  other  person : 

"  He  has  only  fainted  ;  if  Doctor  P had 

come  when  he  said  he  would,  it  would  not  have 
happened.  He  will  come  to  directly.  I  was 
very  much  alarmed — but  he  will  be  better  soon. 
I  am  going  in  to  see  liim  directly." 

I  attempted  to  lead  her  mind  away  from  the 
subject,  but  although  she  seemed  to  hear  what 
I  said,  she  only  replied  in  such  broken  cxpres- 
eiona  as  the  foregoing.  Poor  girl !  she  was 
evidently  crazed  with  the  intensity  of  the  sud- 
den blow  ;  but  hoping  that  it  niiglit  be  only  tem- 
porary, and  being  under  the  necessity  of  visiting 
other  patient«,  I  advised  a  composing  draught, 


and  that,  if  possible,  she  should  be  undressed 
and  got  to  bed  and  kept  perfectly  quiet.  I  took 
my  departure,  having  promised  Mrs.  W.  at  her 
request,  to  call  in  again  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

The  medical  profession  is  every  day  accused 
of  insensibility  to  the  pains  and  woes  of  llic 
objects  that  require  its  care.  It  is  thought, 
somehow,  that  our  constant  familiarity  with 
human  suffering,  sears  over  our  hearts,  and 
wears  out  our  better  feelings,  so  that  we  go 
to  our  business  as  the  mechanic  goes  to  his 
task,  with  a  coldly  Calculating  view  to  its 
profits ;  or,  if  better  things  are  allowed  us, 
only  as  the  student  of  science  to  his  studies, 
curious  to  watcli  the  course,  and  progress,  and 
results  of  disease,  or  the  elTects  of  remedies. 
The  probe  that  sounds  the  depth  and  extent  of 
the  wound,  however  carefully  and  gently  it  may 
be  used,  produces  often  intense  pain ;  and  how 
often  is  it  made  the  evidence  of  a  callous  heart, 
when  that  very  heart  was  overflowing  with 
sympathy,  and  felt  an  answering  pang  to  every 
pain  it  reluctantly  inflicted.  Never  was  a 
falser  censure  thrown  upon  any  one,  than  that 
which  lays  to  our  charge  insensibility  of  heart. 
There  may  be,  and  doubtless  are,  many  in  our 
profession  upon  whom  the  imputation  may 
justly  rest.  But  I  speak  not  for  myself  alone, 
when  I  aflSrm  that  as  a  body  of  men,  physicians 
are  alive  always  to  the  most  active  sympathy 
in  all  the  pains  of  their  afflicted  charges.  Tliey 
may  assume  an  air  of  stoical  indifference — tliey 
may  wear  a  brow  of  unconcern  and  courageous 
confidence,  even  when  they  have  little  hope ;  to 
infuse  which  courage  and  confidence  into  the 
heart  of  the  patient  may  be  their  great  reliance 
in  restoring  him  to  health.  But  underneath  all 
this  calm  and  bold  exterior  lies  hid  a  crowd  of 
trembling  fears  and  harassing  anxieties,  that 
makes  day  long  and  night  restless,  and  life 
wearisome,  only  for  the  conviction  that  his  is 
the  noble  and  untiring  task,  with  God's  bless- 
ing, to  relieve  human  suflTering,  and  oftentimes 
restore  the  almost  dead  to  life,  and  to  their  de- 
spairing friends. 

Throughout  my  whole  ride,  on  that  day,  my 
mind  was  filled  with  the  image  of  this  bereaved 
family,  and  especially  of  the  stricken  daughter. 
Schooled  in  the  same  self-confident  religion  of 
him  who  had  just  died,  they  had  no  source  froir. 
which  to  draw  comfort,  no  staff  on  which  to 
lean.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  mind  should 
grow  giddy  and  fail  in  the  terrible  hour.  It 
was  almost  sunset  when  I  visited  them  again, 
and  the  body  had  been  laid  out  upon  the  bed, 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


175 


just  as  he  had  lain  during  his  illness.  The 
family  were  seated  around  the  bed,  and  by  the 
foot  sat  the  daughter,  with  her  hands  folded, 
but  her  countenance  unchanged. 

I  learned,  upon  inquiring,  that  slie  had  ob- 
stinately refused  to  take  the  draught  I  had 
ordered,  or  to  lie  down,  at  frequent  intervals 
saying,  that  she  was  going  in  soon  to  see  her 
father,  and  that  he  had  only  fainted,  and  would 
soon  come  to.  With  some  difficulty  I  succeed- 
ed in  withdrawing  the  family  from  the  room, 
and  persuading  Alice,  the  daughter,  to  walk 
with  me  in  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house. 
Hearty  sympathy  will  win  its  way,  even  in 
cases  where  the  mind  is  willfully  or  from  dis- 
ease rendered  difficult  of  approach. 

Alice  took  my  arm,  and  after  walking  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
and  said : 

"  I  was  sadly  frightened  at  my  father's  faint- 
ing ;  it  was  so  much  worse  than  it  commonly 
has  been.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have 
done  if  he  had  not  recovered  from  it.  I  have 
so  long  been  afraid  he  would  die  in  one  of  these 
turns.  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  attend  him 
now.     Do  you  think  his  disease  is  curable  2" 

It  was  sad  to  see  that  she  was  still  under  so 
strong  a  delusion,  and  I  hesitated  as  to  the 
course  I  should  pursue ;  but  soon  determined, 
at  all  hazards,  to  attempt  to  impress  her  with 
the  truth  as  it  really  was.  It  seemed  at  first 
that  she  comprehended  it,  for  she  started  and 
looked  me  in  the  face,  and  exclaimed,  "  Dead !" 
but  the  impression  faded  instantly.  I  tried 
again. 

"I  was  surprised,  Miss  W.,"  said  I,  "that 
you  did  not  weep  as  the  rest  of  your  family  did, 
when  your  father  fainted  this  morning." 

"  I  could  not,"  she  replied.  "  I  wanted  to, 
and  tears  would  have  relieved  me,  for  I  felt 
then,  and  I  feel  now,  as  if  my  brain  was  on  fire. 
There  is  such  a  burning  here  in  my  forehead. 
But  it  is  always  so,  for  I  can  never  shed  tears 
at  first,  though  afterwards  they  come  to  my 
rehef." 

This  then,  I  thought,  may  be  the  case  now ; 
and  I  hoped  for  the  effect,  whenever  her  in- 
tensely excited  feelings  should  yield,  so  as  to 
permit  this  great  natural  restorative  power  to 
operate.  During  the  remainder  of  our  walk 
she  conversed  freely,  and  even  became  some- 
what cheerful ;  but  upon  returning  to  the  house 
she  sunk  again  into  her  melancholy  silence. 

Tlie  funeral  took  place  on  the  following  day ; 
but,  although  she  was  present  during  the  cus- 


tomary service,  and  followed  the  remains  of  her 
father  to  the  grave,  no  conviction  of  the  truth 
dawned  upon  her  mind.  She  would  start  sud- 
denly and  gaze  around  upon  the  carriages  and 
the  crowd  of  persons  assembled,  as  if  wonder- 
ing what  could  have  called  them  together,  and 
then  relapse  again  into  her  listlessness.  Once 
she  asked  her  mother,  who  stood  weeping  by 
her  side,  just  as  the  coffin  was  let  down  into 
the  narrow  grave,  why  she  wept  so  bitterly. 
All  relating  to  the  actual  fact  of  her  father's 
death  and  subsequent  scenes,  was  utterly  un- 
realized by  her,  and  she  returned  to  her  home 
to  sit  in  moody  silence,  and  live  in  the  continual 
present ;  for  time  seemed  to  make  no  progress 
with  her,  unless  she  could  be,  for  a  while,  cun- 
ningly wiled  away  from  the  one  consuming 
thought.  She  would  often  speak  of  going  in 
to  see  her  father,  yet  never  made  an  attempt 
to  go. 

At  the  solicitation  of  the  family  I  continued 
to  visit  her,  though  not  with  the  expectation 
that  I  should  be  able  to  do  anything  to  restore 
her.  Change  of  scene  was  recommended,  and 
they  spent  several  weeks  in  traveling ;  but  she 
came  home  as  she  went,  and  sat  down  as  if 
she  had  never  left  the  house.  Her  condition 
was  a  very  distressing  one  to  all  of  us.  Her 
family,  who  had  always  been  very  fond  of  her, 
were  anxious  that  all  should  be  done  that  could 
be,  and  they  spared  no  expense  nor  care  that 
offered  any  prospect  of  restoring  the  balance  of 
her  mind,  or  alleviating  her  case. 

It  was  strange  that  her  health  did  not  suffer, 
yet  it  seemed  to  remain  firm  and  uninjured. 
She  ate  and  slept  but  little,  and  could  never  be 
induced  to  resume  any  of  her  former  occupa- 
tions. She  had  always  been  fond  of  music, 
but  her  piano  was  neglected,  and  her  voice  never 
tried  one  of  her  old  and  favorite  melodies,  and 
when  they  were  sung  in  her  hearing,  they 
seemed  to  make  no  impression  upon  her  mind. 
The  very  memory  of  them  seemed  lost. 

More  than  a  year  passed  away  thus,  and  the 
grief  for  the  loss  of  the  father  had  diminished, 
and  the  family  of  Mrs.  W.  had  become  again 
as  cheerful  as  they  could  be,  with  the  melan- 
choly condition  of  Alice  continually  before  their 
eyes.  I  had  called  at  the  house  one  afternoon, 
and  while  seated  at  the  tea-table,  a  violent 
thunder-storm  arose,  which  continued  till  late 
in  the  night.  I  determined  to  make  myself 
comfortable  where  I  was;  and  after  tea  was 
over,  a  young  lady  who  was  visiting  in  the 
family,  took  her  seat  at  the  piano.     She  played 


176 


GOD    SEEN    IN    HIS    WORKS. 


most  exquisitely,  and  the  evening  passed  rapidly 
away.  After  having  played  more  than  an  hour 
she  left  the  instrument ;  but,  as  if  seized  with  a 
sudden  thought,  she  resumed  her  sea%  and 
struck  tlie  notes  of  a  favorite  waltz.  At  first 
it  was  soft  and  low,  but  gradually  swelling 
louder  and  louder,  till  the  room  seemed  filled 
with  the  music.  As  it  began,  Alice  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  moved  slowly  and  gracefully 
around  the  room  to  the  time  of  the  music.  As 
it  increased  in  power  she  moved  more  rapidly, 
and  with  her  hands  extended,  as  if  supported 
by  some  invisible  partner,  she  still  kept  time  to 
the  wild  and  soul-stirring  music.  All  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her,  but  the  musician  still  played 
on.  "  Faster — faster,"  cried  Alice ;  and  as  the 
tiine  quickened,  she  whirled  wildly  but  firmly 
on — "  Faster,  faster ;"  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  she  moved  was  terrifying,  yet  no  one 


dared  to  interfere.  I  know  not  how  long  this 
continued.  It  may  have  been  but  a  few  mo- 
ments, yet  so  agitated  was  I  with  apprehension 
that  it  seemed  an  hour.  I  feared  also  that  the 
music  might  cease  while  she  was  so  powerfully 
excited,  and  I  dreaded  the  consequences.  But 
it  kept  on,  increasing  in  rapidity  and  power 
with  the  reiterated  "  Faster,  faster"  of  Alice. 

At  length  she  seemed  to  falter,  and  stepping 
to  her  side,  I  received  her  in  my  arms  as  she 
was  sinking,  exhausted.  I  laid  her  upon  the 
sofa,  when  a  violent  paroxysm  of  weeping  en- 
sued, and  the  long-sealed  fountains  of  her  heart 
were  opened,  and  she  exclaimed  : 

"  O  mother,  he  is  dead  !" 

She  was  restored,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
Three  days  from  that  time  she  was  laid  by  the 
side  of  her  father. 


(!&©I2)   SMM   lEM   mU^   W(DIE1ES 


There  is  a  God !     The  smallest  flower 
That  spreads  its  leaves  at  morning's  hour, 
Whispers  in  accents  soft  and  clear, 
"  My  Maker's  hand  hath  placed  me  here  !" 


There  is  a  God  !    The  little  bird. 
Whose  thrilling  strain  of  joy  is  heard, 
Sings  sweetly  from  the  waving  tree, 
"  There  is  a  God,  who  cares  for  me !" 

ni. 

There  is  a  God  !     Yon  beaming  star 
That  twinkleth  in  the  sky  afar, 
Proclaims  to  each  admiring  eye, 
There  is  a  Crod,  who  dwells  on  high ! 

IV. 

There  is  a  God !    The  ocean's  roar. 
Swelling  along  the  rocky  shore, 


Sounds  forth  in  language  deep  and  high. 
His  Sovereign  Power — His  Majesty ! 


Each  coral  stem,  each  tiny  shell. 
Beneath  the  rolling  waves  that  dwell, 
Are  viewed  by  that  All-seeing  Eye, 
Which  beams  with  mercy  from  on  high  ! 


VI. 


There  is  a  God  !     The  thunder's  peal, 
The  lightning's  flash,  this  truth  reveal ! 
Oh  !  who  can  view  the  stormy  hour. 
And  yet  deny  His  dreadful  power ! — 

vii. 

Dreadful  to  those,  whose  hearts  of  pride 
His  glorious  majesty  deride  ; 
Who  still  refuse,  on  Nature's  face, 
The  hand  of  Nature's  God  to  trace ! 


THE    TWO    MEN    AND    THE    TWO    COUNTRIES. 


177 


flEIlE   IPW©   MIEIf   AMID   ^Mlg   'SPW®   (S(D¥MfIEirilS, 


CHALMERS     AND     O'CONNELL:    SJOTLAND     AND     IRELAND. 


A  GREAT  man's  greatness  is  not  felt  till  his 
death.  Not  always  true  is  this  remark,  for 
there  are  some  men  of  whom  may  be  affirmed 
a  sort  of  greatness  that  enters  the  tomb  with 
the  men,  and  lies  there.  Some  men  are  so 
great  that  the  world  is  afraid  of  them,  and 
breathes  more  freely  when  they  tread  the  earth 
no  more  :  they  were  monsters,  perhaps,  and 
when  they  are  dead  and  gone,  the  wonder  is 
that  any  one  was  ever  afraid  of  them,  or  thought 
them  great.  Such  men  have  not  the  elements 
of  true  greatness :  the  moral  or  mental  power 
that  commands  the  homage  of  mankind,  and 
makes  the  man  the  hero. 

I  do  not  ask  that  others  shall  think  as  I  do 
of  two  men  who  have  recently  passed  away 
from  this  to  another  stage  of  being.  If  I  write 
freely  of  them  and  their  deeds,  let  no  one  else 
be  censured  for  my  views,  if  these  views  are 
not  agreeable  to  the  reader. 

Chalmers  and  O'Connell  were  at  the  head  of 
their  respective  countrymen,  though  neither  of 
them  had  a  title  to  command.  Victoria  was 
not  more  rnighty  in  Scotland  than  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Theology  at  St.  Andrews  :  the  Queen 
of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  could  not  rule  the 
Irish  with  her  sceptre,  as  did  the  Liberator  with 
his  cry  of  "  Repeal."  Both  of  these  men  were 
heroes,  and  in  their  spheres  were  marked  men, 
whom  the  world  stare  at,  and  children  run 
after,  and  whose  life  is  the  life  of  the  times 
they  live  in,  and  whose  death  is  a  theme  for 
the  living  to  talk  of  long  after.  A  few  weeks 
ago,  and  the  streets  of  Edinburgh  and  its  house- 
tops were  thronged,  and  the  whole  city  was 
moved,  to  behold  the  funeral  train  of  the  man 
of  the  people  : — a  few  weeks  afterwards,  and 
the  same  demonstrations  of  respect  and  rever- 
ence were  paid  in  Dublin  to  the  memory  of 
O'Connell.  The  men  were  the  best  beloved  of 
their  race,  and  when  they  died,  tears — honest, 
warm,  feeling  tears — were  shed  like  rain  over 
their  graves.     The  Scots  loved  Chalmers,  and 


the  Irish  loved  O'Connell — there  is  no  doubt  of 
it ;  and  I  take  the  two  men  to  mark  the  princi- 
ples they  lived  to  disseminate,  and  to  form  the 
ground-work  for  a  thought  or  two  which  I 
would  urge,  on  the  comparative  claims  of  the 
men  to  the  remembrance  and  gratitude  of 
mankind. 

Scotland  and  Ireland  !  The  world  has  read 
their  history,  and  the  world  knows  too  the 
causes  that  have  led  them  to  be  what  they  are. 
Neighbors  as  they  are,  sisters  as  they  are, 
with  common  blood,  and  common  rights,  and 
common  wrongs,  each  with  a  religion  of  her 
own  preference,  and  with  the  same  motives  be- 
fore them  for  high  and  lofty  progress  in  the 
scale  of  nations,  there  is  a  contrast  between  the 
Scotch  and  tlie  Irish,  so  broad  and  marked,  that 
to  fail  of  seeing  it  and  feeling  it  is  impossible. 

Chalmers  and  O'Connell !  The  world  has 
read  their  history — has  had  a  chapter  in  their 
history  to  read  daily  for  many  years.  And  no 
man  has  seen  the  progress  of  either  country  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century  now  gone,  without  see- 
ing the  name  and  the  spirit  of  one  or  the  other 
of  these  two  mighty  men,  like  hero  leaders  at 
the  head  of  their  countries'  hosts.  Both  of  these 
men  loved  their  country  :  they  were  p.\triots, 
in  the  highest  sense  of  that  great  word.  I  do 
not  challenge  the  sincerity  of  either  of  them  : 
they  would  have  been  martyrs  for  their  owr> 
principles,  or  willingly  have  lived  a  hundred 
years  to  spread  those  principles.  Both  had 
before  them  a  common  object  for  which  they 
toiled  and  suffered ;  and  both  lived  to  see  the 
result  of  their  respective  efforts.  Liberty  in  all 
the  earthj  the  elevation  of  the  human  race,  was 
doubtless  the  ultimate  desire  of  both;  but  their 
powers  were  displayed  in  first  aiming  to  secure 
for  their  own  people  that  which  they  sought  for 
all  the  world. 

Now  look  at  Chalmers  and  Scotland — 
O'Connell  and  Ireland.  Grant  that  the  former 
had  the  advantage  of  a  people  far  in  advance 


178 


THE    TWO    MEN     AND    THE    TWO    COUNTRIES. 


Df  tlie  latter  when  lie  came  upon  the  stage  of 
action  ;  it  will  still  be  remembered  that  the 
same  principles  which  Jiad  given  the  Scot  the 
pre-eminence,  were  carried  out  by  these  cham- 
pions when  they  came  to  lead,  Chalmers  was 
not  only  a  patriot,  but  a  Protestant;  and  the 
strong  features  of  that  system  of  truth  of  which 
the  world  first  felt  the  power  in  the  Reforma- 
tion, were  more  vividly  revealed  in  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Theology  and  the  eloquent  preacher 
of  Scotland,  than  in  any  man  since  Knox.  He 
took  the  free  Bible,  and  went  out  with  it  into 
the  world  as  the  ark  of  human  liberty.  He 
gave  the  Bible  to  the  people,  and  then  taught 
them  to  read  and  understand  it.  It  was  the 
doctrine  of  Chalmers,  that  religion  and  intelli- 
gence were  the  elements  of  human  freedom, 
and  he  aimed  at  their  wide  diffusion,  as  the 
grand  security  of  what  liberty  they  had,  and 
the  only  hope  of  more.  In  this  Bible  they 
learned  the  great  truths,  not  those  only  that 
relate  to  God  and  heaven,  but  the  truths  that 
lie  at  the  basis  of  human  rights,  and  make  men 
a  world  of  equals,  on  the  platform  of  a  common 
origin  and  destiny,  made  to  differ  on  principles 
as  just  and  reasonable  as  the  providence  of 
God.  The  truths  of  the  Word  of  God  it  was 
the  aim  of  Chalmers  to  make  familiar  to  the 
minds  of  his  countrymen ;  and  the  one  great 
work  of  his  life,  which  has  been  less  dwelt  on 
than  many  others,  was  the  wide  diffusion  of 
learning  among  the  people,  that  they  might  be 
able  to  know  the  way  of  life  through  the  reve- 
lation from  heaven.  Since  his  death,  the  throng 
of  admiring  eulogists  have  so  delighted  to  dwell 
upon  the  splendor  of  his  intellect,  the  eloquence 
of  his  lips,  his  own  vast  resources,  and  his  power 
over  the  minds  of  those  with  whom  he  had  to  do, 
that  his  intercourse  with  the  humble,  his  interest 
in  their  elevation,  and  his  desire  to  make  the 
poor  rich  in  the  highest  of  all  possessions,  the 
treasures  of  virtuous  minds,  have  been  in  some 
measure  overlooked.  I  have  heard  those  affirm, 
who  have  been  familiar  with  his  walks  of  use- 
fulness, that  the  retirement  of  a  cottage,  or  a 
little  gathering  with  the  peasantry,  or  the 
secresy  of  a  sick  chamber,  or  a  congregation  of 
the  vicious  poor  in  the  city,  was  the  field  in 
which  he  appeared  to  nobler  advantage  than 
even  in  his  chair  of  theology,  or  the  metropoli- 
tan pulpit.  The  people  were  on  his  heart ;  and 
when  he  stood  among  those  to  whom  learning 
and  genius  were  of  little  or  no  avail,  except  as 
they  gave  energy  to  truth,  he  poured  upon  their 
ears  the  messages  of  mercy  to  sinners  by  Jesus 


Christ,  with  an  earnestness,  unction  and  power 
that  he  did  not  attain  unto  when  the  titled  and 
fashionable  crowds  flocked  to  hear  him  in  Lon- 
don. Those  who  have  thought  of  him  only 
as  the  great  theologian  may  discover  a  new 
trait  in  his  character,  as  they  read  an  anecdote 
related  by  one  of  his  brethren  in  the  ministry 
of  the  Free  Church : — 

"Sometimes  it  was  my  lot  to  be  his  companion 
to  some  wretched  hovel,  where  I  have  seen  him 
take  his  seat  by  the  side  of  some  poor  child  of  want 
and  weakness,  and  patiently,  affectionately  and 
earnestly  strive  to  convey  into  his  darkened  mind 
some  ray  of  truth,  that  might  guide  him  to  safety 
and  to  God.  On  such  occasions  it  was  marvelous 
to  observe  with  what  simplicity  of  speech  that  great 
mind  would  utter  truth.  One  instance  of  this  I 
must  be  allowed  to  mention.  The  scene  was  a 
low,  dirty  hovel,  over  whose  damp  and  uneven 
floor  it  was  difficult  to  walk  without  stumbling, 
and  into  which  a  small  window,  coated  with  dust, 
admitted  hardly  enough  of  light  to  enable  an  eye 
unaccustomed  to  the  gloom  to  discern  a  single 
object.  A  poor  old  woman,  bed-ridden  and  almost 
blind,  who  occupied  a  miserable  bed  opposite  the 
fire-place,  was  the  object  of  the  Doctor's  visit. 
Seating  himself  by  her  side,  he  entered  at  once, 
after  a  few  general  inquiries  as  to  her  health,  (fee, 
into  religious  conversation  with  her.  Alas  !  it 
seemed  all  in  vain.  The  mind  which  he  strove  to 
enlighten  had  been  so  long  closed  and  dark,  that  it 
appeared  impossible  to  thrust  into  it  a  single  ray  of 
light.  Still,  on  the  part  of  the  woman,  there  was 
an  evident  anxiety  to  lay  hold  upon  something  of 
■what  he  was  telling  her,  and,  encouraged  by  this, 
he  persevered,  plying  her;  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, with  the  offers  of  the  gospel,  and  urging  her 
to  trust  in  Christ.  At  length  she  said,  '  Ah,  Sir,  I 
,  would  fain  do  as  you  bid  me,  but  I  dinna  ken  how ; 
how  can  1  trust  in  Christ!'  '  O,  woman,'  was  his 
expressive  answer,  in  the  dialect  of  the  district, 
'just  lijypcn  to  Him.'  '  Eh,  Sir,'  was  her  reply, 
*and  is  that  a'l*  'Yes,  yes,'  was  his  gratified 
response,  'just  lippen  to  Him,  and  lean  on  Him, 
and  you'll  never  perish.'  To  some,  perhaps,  this 
language  may  be  obscure,  but  to  that  poor  blind 
dying  woman  it  was  as  light  from  heaven  ;  it 
guided  her  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Saviour,  and 
there  is  good  reason  to  believe  it  was  the  instru- 
ment of  ultimately  conducting  her  to  heaven.' 

Schemes  of  Church  extension,  schemes  of 
education,  and  schemes  to  remove  the  evils  of 
poverty,  were  objects  that  found  in  Chalmers  an 
efficient  and  untiring  promoter ;  and  to  the 
effect  of  these  we  look,  to  learn  the  influence 
which  the  man  exerted  on  the  generation  of 
which  he  was  one  of  the  leading  minds.  There 
is  Scotland — ^look  at  her  and  learn.  The  evils 
she  yet  endures  are  the  results  of  cruel  and 
unequal  laws,  which  the  next  generation  will 


THE    TWO    MEN    AND    THE     TWO    COUNTRIES. 


179 


modify  or  abolish.;  but  in  the  elements  of  human 
happiness  how  large  a  share  has  fallen  to  the 
dwellers  among  those  hills.  If  knowledge  and 
virtue  make  a  people  happy,  where  is  more  of 
the  material  of  happiness  than  in  Scotland  ? 
And  when  the  lavvs  of  primogeniture  and  entail, 
with  the  curse  of  a  Church  and  State  establish- 
ment, shall  be  swept  away  by  the  progress  of 
free  principles  and  sound  political  economy,  we 
may  look  for  the  onward  rushing  of  that  people 
in  a  career  of  social,  domestic  and  national  en- 
joyment, unexampled  by  any  former  experience 
in  their  history. 

It  would  bo  a  pleasure,  not  a  task,  to  trace 
the  mind  of  Chalmers  at  work  in  all  that  has 
been  done  in  the  last  twenty-five  years  for  the 
advancement  of  sound  political  and  religious 
sentiment  in  Scotland.  We  should  find  him  the 
man  of  the  people  at  all  times,  and  willing  to 
spend  and  be  spent  for  the  spread  of  truth,  and 
confident  always  of  final  success.  But  I  would 
impress  this  one  fact,  that  Chalmers,  as  a  re- 
former, rested  for  triumph  on  the  power  of  God's 
word,  and  by  making  this  word  the  guide  of  the 
people,  he  promised  them  the  greatest  good. 
In  this  sign  he  conquered.  And  now  that  he 
is  gone,  and  men  seek  to  know  what  he  has 
done  for  the  world  he  lived  in,  they  will  find 
that  he  has  done  nothing  but  to  make  religion 
glorious  in  the  eyes  of  the  great,  and  lovely  in 
the  eyes  of  the  poor :  nothing  but  to  spread  the 
gospel  among  the  people  as  the  man  of  their 
counsel,  while  he  has  taught  them  to  read  it, 
and  understand  its  claims  upon  the  love  of  their 
hearts. 

Turn  to  Ireland  and  O'Connell.  I  know  that 
he  had  not  the  materials  upon  which  to  work 
which  the  Scotchman  had  when  he  rose  to  be 
a  prince ;  but  as  he  had  worse  materials,  more 
ignorance,  more  vice,  more  poverty, more  misery, 
less  liberty,  less  regard  for  law,  the  greater  the 
demand  for  the  exercise  of  those  strong  powers 
that  alone  are  sufficient  to  overcome  these  evils 
and  exalt  a  nation  that  has  been  trodden  down. 
There  is  a  charm  in  the  word  "  EMANcirATioN" 
that  blends  so  cheerily  with  our  treedom,  that 
we  hardly  stop  to  inquire  what  it  means,  and 
without  a  moment's  reflection  we  sing  jMeans  to 
the  man  whose  name  is  blended  with  it.  And 
when  O'Connell  is  proclaimed  the  father  of 
Catholic  Emancipation,  we  are  ready  at  once 
to  place  him  among  the  great  authors  of  human 
liberty,  the  apostle  of  freedom  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  But  what  has  ii  done  for  the  mass  of 
ihe  Irish  people  '    Has  it  made  them  more  free, 


more  virtuous,  more  intelligent,  more  happy  ? 
This,  I  take  it,  is  the  test  by  which  civil  privi- 
leges are  to  be  estimated.  If  a  man  may  be  a 
good  Catholic  and  renounce  allegiance  to  the 
head  of  his  church,  who  is  a  civil  as  well  as  a 
spiritual  prince  and  potentate,  then  he  is  enti- 
tled to  the  rights  and  privileges  of  citizenship 
in  the  land  of  his  adoption.  But  if  a  Catholic 
is  still  a  Roman  citizen,  though  his  home  is  in 
Ireland  or  America,  he  has  no  right  to  the  priv- 
ileges that  are  the  birthright  of  those  who  love 
the  land  they  live  in  and  the  government  that 
fosters  them,  before  all  others,  the  world  over. 
But  this  is  a  digression,  and  is  only  hinted  at, 
for  men  to  think  of  when  they  are  weighing  the 
claims  of  their  fellow  men  to  the  blessings 
which  seem  to  be  equally  the  right  of  all. 
They  are  the  right  only  of  those  who  will  use 
them  for  the  permanent  welfare  of  the  whole 
people.  But  O'Connell  had  his  eye  perhaps  on 
the  elevation  of  his  countrymen.  I  say  perhaps, 
for  he  has  been  charged  with  being  infinitely 
selfish,  and  with  seeking  only  his  own  aggran- 
dizement. Let  it  be  granted  that  he  was  truly 
and  honestly  a  patriot,  and  lived  only  for  his 
fellows :  it  is  the  policy  that  he  pursued  as  a 
reformer  that  I  would  study  to  learn  the  wisdom 
of  the  man  and  his  claim  to  honor,  now  that  he 
is  dead.  His  line  of  action  has  been  governed 
by  the  one  sentiment  that  Ireland's  degradation 
is  the  result  of  her  civil  disability  ;  that  if  Ire- 
land were  free,  Ireland  would  be  happy.  When 
the  Emancipation  Bill  became  a  law,  and  the 
member  from  Clare  could  take  a  seat  in  the 
British  Parliament,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  peo- 
ple in  the  honr  of  triumph  could  scarcely  have 
been  greater  had  each  man  been  made  a  king. 
But  this  was  not  enough  to  give  prosperity  to 
Ireland,  and  "  Repeal"  has  been  the  cry  for  the 
last  fifteen  years,  as  if  the  severing  of  the  Union 
was  to  endow  Ireland  with  the  blessings  that 
make  England  and  Scotland  to  differ  from  her. 
Mistaken  man,  and  miserably  deluded  people  ! 
Infatuated  with  the  notion  that  O'Connell  was 
bom  to  be  both  king  and  priest,  they  have  bowed 
their  necks  to  his  feet,  and  their  reason  to  his 
will,  and  for  years  have  received  their  lessons 
from  his  lips.  And  are  they  any  wiser,  better 
or  happier  for  him  ?  The  grand  cause  of  their 
degradation  he  has  sought  to  perpetuate.  Their 
system  of  religion  has  enslaved  and  impover- 
ished them,  and  that  religion  he  has  wielded  as 
the  right  arm  of  his  strength.  Had  one  tithe 
of  the  power  he  has  employed  been  spent  in 
the  diffusion  of  knowledge  among  the  people, 


ft. 


180 


THE    TWO    MEN    AND    THE    TWO    COUNTRIES. 


especially  the  knowledge  of  the  Bible  and  the 
way  of  life  by  the  gospel,  Ireland  would  have 
been  at  this  day  on  the  road  to  happiness.  A 
free  Bible  and  free  schools  would  have  made  a 
free  people  of  Irishmen,  as  it  has  of  Scotch- 
men ;  but  liberty  without  intelligence  and  vir- 
tue, or  liberty  without  the  Bible,  is  not  to  be 
enjoyed.  O'Connell  has  agitated,  and  what 
has  his  agitation  produced  ?  Of  what  use  is  it 
al  this  day  to  speak  of  the  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  that  flocked  to  hear  him 
at  Ballanahill,  at  Sligo,  at  Drogheda,  at  Eunis- 
carthy,  at  Clare  and  on  the  hill  of  Tara  ?  Did 
the  seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  that  gath- 
ered at  once  in  these  mass  meetings  of  men 
and  women,  learn  the  secret  of  being  free  and 
happy,  when  they  hung  on  the  lips  of  Irish 
agitators,  and  made  the  heavens  tremble  with 
their  shouts  for  freedom  and  their  threats  of 
vengeance  upon  their  oppressors  ?  They  asked 
for  fisli,  and  he  gave  them  a  serpent ;  they  asked 
for  bread,  and  he  gave  them  a  stone  ;  and  lo  ! 
the  result.     They  have  starved. 

They  have  oppressors,  and  deliverance  is 
their  right.  But  so  have  the  Scotch ;  and  in 
spite  of  the  same  system  of  proprietorship  and 
tenantry  by  which  the  rich  are  made  richer 
and  the  poor  are  made  poorer,  the  people  of 
Scotland  have  a  fair  measure  of  happiness 
among  them.  Life  and  property  are  safe  in 
Scotland  :  neither  is  in  Ireland.  Want  and 
wretchedness  are  in  Ireland  to  a  degree  that 
no  other  civilized  land  has  endured  in  modern 
times.  And  he  that  will  study  the  religion  of 
Ireland  will  not  be  slow  in  learning  that  it  is 
the  curse  of  the  land ;  and  while  it  hangs  on 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  people,  Ireland  will 
be  degraded.  Perhaps  there  was  never  a  more 
signal  exhibition  of  the  impotence  of  human 
effort  to  accomplish  a  good  end  by  the  wrong 
instrumentality.  Ireland  was  diseased  and 
dying,  but  the  doctors  and  the  drugs  were  not 
what  the  patient  needed.  They  have  but  ag- 
gravated the  complaint  and  put  far  off,  perhaps 
forever,  the  day  of  recovery.  The  relief  for 
Ireland  is  not  in  the  repeal  of  her  Union  with 
Great  Britain :  she  might  be  more  miserable 
alone  than  in  company.  Her  relief  is  in  the 
diffusion  of  knowledge  among  the  people — 
knowledge  that  is  incompatible  with  Popery, 
and  which  will  in  any  country  work  the  over- 
throw of  that  religion.  O'Connell  went  to 
work  at  the  wrong  end.  He  sougJit  the  abro- 
gation of  laws  that  will  yield  only  to  the  ad- 
vance of  knowledge,  which  is   power.     And 


when  the  schoolmaster,  with  the  Bible  in  his 
hand,  may  go  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  Emerald  Isle,  diffusing  there  light  and 
life,  Ireland  will  arise  and  shine.  But  the 
Agitator  and  Liberator  was  not  the  man  to  dis- 
cern the  secret  of  his  country's  suffering ;  and 
though  he  was  a  giant,  and  toiled  and  fought 
like  one,  and  wielded  a  moral  power  over  his 
people  sucli  as  no  private  citizen  since  the  days 
of  the  Grecian  Republic  has  wielded,  yet  he 
died  and  left  the  people  as  poor  and  oppressed 
and  despairing  as  when  he  first  promised  them 
a  parliament  of  their  own. 

I  said  that  no  one  else  may  be  blamed  for 
these  opinions.  They  are  the  conclusions 
reached  by  comparing  Scotland  and  Ireland, 
and  asking  what  makes  them  to  ^ffer.  It  is 
natural  to  take  such  a  review  when  two  such 
men,  as  their  chiefs,  are  removed  by  death  at 
the  same.  time.  The  result  of  such  a  compari- 
son will  strengthen  the  confidence  of  Protest- 
antism in  its  free  institutions,  while  it  shows 
the  statesman  and  political  economist  that  the 
safety  of  freedom  and  the  advancement  of  na- 
tional happiness  are  to  be  sought  in  the  princi- 
ples of  religious  liberty  that  the  Reformation 
and  the  Revolution  have  given  anew  to  the 
world.  Let  these  be  cherished,  and  the  rights 
of  man  will  be  safe.  Temporary  and  partial 
evils  may  remain  ;  and  where  these  evils  are 
incorporated  into  the  fundamental  law  of  the 
country,  it  may  require  time  to  work  out  their 
remedy :  but  the  religion  of  the  Bible  is  sub- 
versive of  oppression,  and  as  it  spreads  among 
the  people,  makes  them  feel  their  strength  and 
equality.*  Old  wrongs  they  will  endure  till  they 

*  There  can  be  no  more  important  or  truer  prin- 
ciple promulgated  than  the  one  imbodied  in  this 
paragraph  by  our  correspondent,  viz.,  that  legisla- 
tion cannot  reform  a  people.  As  the  source  of  deg- 
radation and  crime  lies  deeper  than  outward  forms, 
the  remedy  must  go  deeper  also.  But  though  this 
is  true,  and  especially  important  in  this  period  of 
sham  social  reforms,  yet  it  is  equally  true,  that  a 
people  cannot  be  reformed  while  laboring  under 
restrictions  that  compel  them  to  be  ignorant  and  to 
struggle  on  the  verge  of  starvation.  If  you  will  not 
give  men  enough  to  eat,  you  cannot  make  them 
listen  to  moral  teachings.  Thus,  while  legal  enact- 
ments are  powerless  to  elevate  a  people,  the  removal 
of  those  which  degrade  and  reduce  them  to  starvation 
is  indispensable.  This  much,  perhaps,  should  be 
said  injustice  to  O'Connell  and  Ireland,  without  at 
all  aflecting  the  position  taken  by  our  correspond- 
ent. That  O'Connell  made  a  grievous  mistake  as 
to  the  means  of  elevating  Ireland  is  evident ;  but 
that  he  should  have  bent  all  his  energies  to  the  re- 
moval of  the  terrible  oppression  under  which  his 


UNSEEN,    BUT    NOT    DEAD. 


181 


can  get  at  the  peaceful  remedy,  but  the  wrongs 
will  be  righted,  and  the  people  will  have  what 
God  gave  them — the  right  to  govern  themselves. 
When  did  two  men  die  whose  death  has 
stirred  so  deeply  the  heart  of  the  civilized 
world  ?  The  one  as  a  civilian,  the  other  as  a 
Christian  :  both  as  leaders  and  reformers !  both 
as  patriots,  with  souls  alive  to  the  wants  of 
their  people,  and  with  courage  to  strike  boldly 
for  what  they  claimed.  There  is  a  moral  sub- 
country  suffered,  was  natural.  A  nation  which  has 
been  confiscated  over  and  over  again,  which  is 
drained  of  ail  her  money  and  robbed  of  all  her  priv- 
ileges, may  well  imagine  that  all  her  evils  lie  in  her 
poUtical  condition. — Ed. 


limity,  too,  in  the  mourning  which  followed 
their  departure.  Not  their  native  lands,  but 
distant  lands,  ocean-wide  apart,  lifted  up  their 
voices  and  wept,  when  the  tidings  came  on  the 
same  gale  that  O'Connell  and  Chalmers  were 
dead.  It  is  well  to  study  the  genius  and 
the  principles  of  the  two  men,  by  the  light  of 
their  deeds  and  the  results.  And  if  in  these 
lines  there  is  aught  that  charity  would  refuse 
to  say,  or  truth  should  have  refrained  from  say- 
ing, let  it  be  searched  out  and  rejected ;  while 
the  facts  still  stand  as  testimonies  of  the  power 
that  a  free  Bible,  and  a  free  school,  and  a  free 
gospel  possess,  and  what  they  may  achieve,  to 
make  a  people  prosperous  and  happy. 


WHSSISH,  ilGT'IP  E©^  llgASD 


In  my  study  lonely. 

While  the  pale  stars  watch, 
Thinking  of  thee  only. 

Some  bright  gleams  I  catch. 

Oh  !  then  sorrow  passes 
To  its  kindred  shades. 

And  from  memory's  glasses 
Ne'er  thy  beauty  fades. 

Pictured  on  my  spirit. 
Gently  lies  thy  form  ; 

Oh  !  I  seem  to  wear  it. 
Aye  my  heart  to  warm. 

Though  thou'rt  unseen  ever, 

Lost  to  my  embrace. 
Far  thine  image  never 

Is  from  this  heart's  place. 

If  to  be  still  cherished 

In  a  soul  once  loved. 
Is  to  live,  ne'er  perished 

Art  thou  though  removed. 

If  to  one  delaying 

Here  thou  art  allied. 
Is  to  live,  thou'rt  saying, 

"  I  have  not  yet  died." 


If  to  have  a  dwelling 
For  thy  memory  here, 

In  some  heart  high  swelling 
Is  to  live,  thou'rt  near. 

If  at  every  beating 
Of  that  heart  for  thee. 

Meet  we, — ofttimes  meeting. 
Then,  we  seem  to  be. 

If  for  aye  abiding. 

Faith,  love,  hope  are  found, 
In  these  clay  forms  hiding. 

Still  to  me  thou'rt  bound. 

For  these  were  the  graces 

Of  thy  life  a  part. 
Which  from  my  heart's  places 

Never  do  depart. 

Therefore  I,  possessing 

These  gifts  with  life's  power, 
Still  am  thee  caressing. 

In  each  sacred  hour. 

K,  in  midnight  dreamings, 
Lost  ones  are  returned. 

Oft  thy  present  gleamings 
In  my  breast  have  burned. 


182 


LINES  TO  THE  CATSKILL  MOUNTAINS. 


In  yon  stars  now  shining, 
In  all  flowers  and  brooks, 

For  thee  still  repining. 
Aye  I  see  thy  looks. 

In  the  temple  solemn, 

In  the  forest  wide, 
On  the  mountain's  column. 

Thou  art  by  my  side. 


At  the  secret  altar, 
When  my  spirit  prays, 

And  my  weak  lips  falter, 
Lo  !  thine  seem  to  praise. 

Oh  !  'tis  true,  wherever 

On  earth  I  abide. 
Thy  smile  leaves  me  never — 

Canst  thou  then  have  died  ? 


MHIgS  m  f HI^  (SAf SMILIL  MKDOTfMHS, 


BY    REV.    P.    F.    JtTDD, 


Ye  noble  peaks ! — like  bulwarks  built, 

Along  the  western  sky — 
Who  laid  your  deep  foundations  there, 

Who  i-aised  your  summits  high  ? 

'Twas  He  who  spake — and  suns  and  worlds 

Obeyed  his  sovereign  nod ; 
Who,  ere  he  brought  the  mountains  forth, 

Eternally  was  God ! 


He  raised  your  high,  majestic  domes. 
Whose  summits  pierce  the  air ; 

Ho  heaved  your  massive  pillars  up, 
And  wrote  His  glory  there 


What  mighty  changes  Time  hath  wrought, 

What  deeds  of  valor  done  ! 
While  ye  have  braved,  unchanged,  the  rage 

Of  ages  that  are  gone. 


I've  stood  beneath  your  forest-shades. 
And  heard  the  wild  bird's  call, — 

Or  listened  to  the  flute-like  voice 
Of  some  sweet  waterfall. 

I've  loved  to  watch  when  noontide  light 

Shone  brightly  on  you  all, 
Or  see  adown  your  graceful  slopes 

The  lengthening  shadows  fall. 

And,  oh  !  at  sunset's  peaceful  hour. 

That  sweetest  hour  of  day, 
When  cares  and  troubles  of  the  world. 

Pass  with  the  light  away — 

When  all  the  soul  is  soothed  to  peace, 

And  all  the  sounds  that  move 
Seem  charg'd  with  influence  sweet  and  strange, 

To  bear  the  soul  above — 


I've  stood  upon  your  towering  heights, 

And  from  your  lofty  brow 
Have  gazed — from  whence  immensity 

Seemed  stretching  out  below 

I've  sought  each  wild,  romantic  spot. 

And  each  sequestered  nook, 
And  been  whore  human  voice,  it  seemed, 

Had  ne'er  its  echo  woko. 


How  have  I  watched  the  gilded  clouds, 
Which  crowned  you  brilliantly. 

And  called  the  eyes  I  loved  so  well, 
To  come  and  gaze  with  me. 

They  seemed  too  pure  indeed  for  earth, 

As  if  to  mortals  given 
To  lead  our  thoughts  from  hues  so  bright, 

To  brighter  hues  of  heaven. 


REALS    AND    IDEALS. 


183 


miSAlL©    A'M^    HIDIgAILS, 


Br    JOHN    PAUL    JAIVIES. 


THE    BEREAVED    SISTER 


Ida  BIentos  was  never  easily  forgotten  by 
those  who  had  once  known  her.  She  could 
not  be.  Her  memory  hung  around  you  like  a 
thing  of  the  bright  ideal,  which  you  could  not 
dismiss  from  your  presence,  even  if  you  would. 
There  was  a  charm  about  her,  which,  when 
once  it  obtained  a  hold  upon  the  heart,  could 
never  be  dispelled. 

And  yet  a  stranger  never  distinguished  her 
above  others.  Well  he  might  not.  You  look- 
ed about  her  in  vain  for  those  external  attrac- 
tions, which  are  so  often  sought  by  the  gazer. 
She  was  neither  wealthy,  nor  high-born,  nor 
yet  beautiful,  as  the  world  understands  it 

It  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  to  the  mass 
of  observers  she  was  but  an  unnoticed  wild- 
flower.  It  was  not  thus  with  all.  There  were 
those  who  knew  her  excellence.  They  sought 
it  where  the  wise  and  good  alone  seek  it — in 
the  soul.  And  what  a  soul  was  hers !  So 
pure  and  lofty,  yet  so  exquisitely  sensitive  and 
delicate !  At  times,  you  would  fancy,  from  the 
vigor  and  enthusiasm  of  its  flight,  that  it  was 
endowed  only  with  the  eye  and  the  pinion  of 
the  eagle.  At  other  times,  its  intense  suscep- 
tibility of  the  most  delicate  emotions,  would 
present  it  to  you  as  a  thing  woven  of  the 
slenderest  gossamer.  She  seemed  to  possess 
one  of  those  rare  spirits,  which  in  their  higher 
capabilities  have  "  grown  to  an  unearthly  stat- 
ure," and  yet  have  lost  none  of  those  finer, 
feminine  traits  of  lovehness,  that  are  inherent 
in  everjrthing  beautiful. 

While,  however,  such  excellence  was  visible 
in  her  as  a  woman,  it  was  in  another  character 


that  it  shone  forth  with  its  crowning  beauty  and 
loveliness.  There,  every  hue  of  the  soul  was 
deepened  and  blended  in  a  higher  and  holier 
perfection.  Ida  Kenyon  was  a  sister.  She 
had  a  brother  every  way  worthy  of  such  a  sis- 
ter's love  ;  and  how  deeply,  how  unreservedly 
she  loved  him,  you  can  estimate,  who  know 
the  nature  of  a  sister's  love — a  love  in  its 
brighter  examples  so  pure,  and  so  holy,  that 
no  language  but  its  own  should  essay  to  ex- 
press it.  Suffice  it  to  say,  she  lived  only  in 
his  presence.  He  was  her  "  soul's  bright  cy- 
nosure." Wherever  she  might  be,  and  what- 
ever might  surround  her,  she  was  unchanged. 
Her  eye  seemed  to  wander  about  uneasily,  un- 
less it  could  rest  upon  him.  You  may  doubt — 
but  believe  me,  men  do  not  yet  know  all  of  a 
sister's  heart.  When  they  do,  surely  it  will 
not  be  possible  for  them  to  be  so  often  heart- 
less. In  the  present  case,  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter were  twins,  and  if  brother  and  sister  are  to 
each  other  what  they  sometimes  are,  and  ever 
should  be — what  must  they  be,  when  bound  by 
so  holy  a  tie  ?  So  closely  were  they  allied  in 
fortune,  and  so  firmly  knit  together  in  heart, 
that  it  already  seemed  impossible  for  other  than 
the  same  destiny  to  await  them.  They  had, 
as  it  were,  one  common  existence. 

But,  alas !  that  such  ties  and  relationships 
can  be  broken.  Such  love  should  only  exist  be- 
tween immortals.  At  length  there  came  such  a 
severing  of  sacred  ties  as  makes  the  heart  ache. 
The  brother  was  stricken  down  by  disease. 
The  hand  of  sickness  lay  heavy  upon  him,  and 
fastened  him  upon  a  couch  of  suflTering.    But, 


184 


SONG. 


oh !  what  a  watcher,  what  a  ministering  spirit 
grew  to  his  bedside  !  The  same  visitation  that 
brought  down  the  life  of  the  one  to  its  last 
sands,  seemed  to  endow  that  of  the  other  with 
a  new  and  supernatural  energy.  Hour  after 
hour,  and  day  after  day,  watched  that  precious 
sister  by  the  sufferer,  ministering  to  his  wants, 
and  soothing  his  distress  with  a  touching  assi- 
duity. No  one  could  do  it  like  her ;  for  she  need- 
ed no  guide,  no  language.  She  had  read  every 
smile  and  every  frown  that  passed  over  his 
features,  until  she  knew  his  thoughts  before 
his  lips  parted. 

Day  and  night  passed,  and  it  mattered  not 
that  they  came  and  passed  again — she  shrunk 
not  from  her  task.  When  entreated  to  yield 
her  charge  to  another,  and  seek  rest,  she 
only  answered  with  that  mute  and  eloquent  re- 
fusal, which  tells  the  heart's  consciousness  of 
its  own  strength,  and  its  unalterable  resolution. 
There  she  sat,  her  gaze  steadily  bent  on  him, 
her  brother,  with  that  passionate  tenderness, 
which  disregards  the  ordinary  avenues  of 
thought,  and  strikes  at  once  thrilling  to  the 
heart. 

But  she  passed  not  the  ordeal  unscathed. 
Her  brow  and  her  lips  changed.  Their  color 
faded  until  they  became  like  marble,  and  often- 
times not  the  movement  of  a  muscle  would  be- 
tray through  them  the  presence  of  that  life,  so 
intensely  wrought  up  to  its  mightiest  energy 
of  endurance.  It  would  have  drawn  tears  into 
any  eye,  to  have  looked  upon  that  sister ;  for 
that  silence  and  motionlessness  were  but  types 


of  an  agony  of  concern,  that  was  grasping  with 
an  iron  hand  the  heart-strings  within.  Never 
a  tear  glittered  in  her  eye,  not  a  sigh  breathed 
from  her  lips  ;  but  that  hidden  anguish,  though 
it  had  sealed  up  every  avenue  through  which 
grief  finds  utterance,  yet  it  could  not  conceal 
its  own  bitter  presence,  or  the  occasional 
glimpse  of  its  fatal  workings. 

But  why  dwell  on  this  ?  She  watched  by 
the  dying.  May  I  never  behold  the  like  again  ! 
When  that  bright  eye  closed,  and  the  lips  al- 
ways so  eloquent,  started  into  its  last  convul- 
sive quivering — when  the  quick  breath  came 
and  went  heavily,  and  the  pulse  grew  faint 
and  unsteady — when  we  knew  that  the  hand 
of  death  was  already  upon  him — laying  her 
;-hand  upon  his  brow,  she  looked  around  on  us, 
as  if  fearful,  but  incredulous. 

He  died.  When  at  length  the  sad  truth 
reached  her  heart,  there  was  none  of  that  gush- 
ing out-burst  of  sorrow,  which  so  often  pours 
its  tears  like  rain  upon  the  withered  spirit. 
She  rose,  and,  with  a  strange  smile,  turned 
calmly  away  to  the  open  window.  Every  eye 
was  fixed  upon  her,  and  for  a  moment  no  one 
thought  of  the  dead.  The  living,  if  that  may 
be  called  life  which  reaches  not  the  heart, 
awakened  every  sympathy.  A  moment  passed, 
and  she  sank  lifeless  into  the  arms  of  her 
friends. 

The  frail  stem  had  broken,  and  the  flower 
began  to  wither. 


S(DH(^, 


Would'st  have  a  song  of  the  days  of  war  ? 

Of  the  deeds  of  the  brave  and  free  ? 
O  dip  me  a  pen  in  a  burning  star, 

And  I'll  write  a  song  for  thee  ! 

Or,  give  me  the  quill  that  the  eaglo  wore, 
When  he  screamed  upon  the  sea, 

And  shook  the  country  the  waters  o'er, 
And  I'll  write  a  song  for  thee. 

I'll  tell  how  the  proud  came  over  the  waves, 
In  gold  and  in  scarlet  clad, 


To  bend  as  low  as  the  lowest  slaves 
The  hearts  they  had  driven  mad. 

I  see  them  now  in  their  bright  array, 
With  their  kingly  banner  high : — 

Come  on  !   you  will  meet  the  men  to-day 
Who  are  not  afraid  to  die. 

I  see  them  now,  and  the  casques  they  wear, 
And  the  swords  they  bear  are  bright, 

And  gracefully  float  the  plumes  in  air, 
That  the  dust  will  stain  to-night. 


MODERN  WITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


185 


Ea(DlDIglM  WiriP(BH(SiaAI§"IP  UE  IgWKDIPIg, 


It  is  difficult  for  us,  who  in  this  day  have 
emerged  somewhat  from  the  fogs  of  supersti- 
tion into  an  atmosphere  where  we  can  see  a 
little  clear  sky,  to  credit  the  voice  of  tlie  past. 
How  strange  it  seems  now,  that  less  than  two 
centuries  ago,  multitudes  of  wise  and  good 
men,  in  different  parts  of  Christendom,  were 
not  only  believers  in  the  reality  of  modern 
witchcraft,  but  that  they  approved  of  inflicting 
the  severest  penalties  upon  the  imaginary 
crime.  But  history  is  a  sorry  tell-tale ;  and 
the  worst  of  it  is,  we  are  compelled  to  believe 
her  gossips.  The  annals  of  superstition,  fright- 
ful, horrible  though  they  are,  and  full  of  puer- 
ile absurdities,  will  well  reward  a  great  deal  of 
study.  They  are  instructive,  and  the  lessons 
they  teach  it  were  well  for  us  all  to  learn.  For 
mankind  are  naturally  superstitious.  We  do 
believe  that  the  genius  of  superstition  has  a 
very  strong  elective  affinity  for  the  human 
mind,  and  that  among  the  demons  dispossessed 
by  the  light  of  intelligence,  this  is  very  often 
the  last.  It  must  be  so.  How  can  we  account 
else  for  many  of  the  strange  phenomena  ex- 
hibited by  the  notions  and  conduct  of  highly 
intelligent  and  enhghtened  men  ? 

The  object  of  this  article  is  to  bring  to  view 
one  of  the  numerous  phases  of  superstition — 
to  sketch  the  history,  in  brief,  of  modern  witch- 
craft on  the  continent  of  Europe  and  in  Great 
Britain,  during  a  period  of  some  two  hundred 
years  immediately  preceding  the  commence- 
ment of  the  eighteenth  century.  We  are  sure 
there  are  facts  connected  with  this  subject 
which  are  not  generally  known  ;  and  it  is  to 
correct  what  is  believed  to  be  a  very  common 
misapprehension  in  respect  to  the  geographical 
hmits  of  this  superstition,  that  we  ask  the 
reader's  indulgence  for  a  moment  or  two. 

The   Puritans  of   New-England  are  often 


sneered  at,  by  those  who  do  not  love  their 
memory — and  there  are  many  such — as  having 
been  especially  zealous  in  the  matter  of  witch- 
hanging.  Is  it  true  that  they  were  singular  in 
this  thing  ?  It  is  true  they  entered  into  the  busi- 
ness with  an  earnestness  worthy  of  a  much  better 
cause.  They  were  thorough-going  men,  those 
Puritans — no  men  of  straw.  It  is  true  that 
some  learned  men  in  their  ranks  were  very 
active  in  purging  the  conununity  of  witches. 
They  wrote  learned  books,  too,  describing,  with 
something  like  a  ludicrous  minuteness,  all  the 
tricks  and  antics  of  those  naughty  supernatural 
agents,  who  used  to  ride  through  the  air  armed 
with  brooms,  and  other  equally  formidable  in- 
struments, and  who  disturbed  the  peace  of  man 
and  beast  in  so  many  ways.  These  men, 
moreover,  hung  their  \'ictiras — a  great  many  of 
them,  it  is  to  be  feared.  Well,  tlie  Puritans 
were  superstitious — there  is  no  disputing  that 
fact — they  were  superstitious  ;  and  some  of  us, 
who  trace  our  ancestry  to  them,  and  are  a  little 
in  their  way  of  thinking  about  matters  and 
things  in  general,  are  in  no  immediate  danger 
of  forgetting  it.  We  are  reminded  of  it  too 
frequently  for  that ;  and  it  is  very  kind,  too,  in 
our  good  friends,  who  cannot  bear  to  see  us 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  pride  of  ancestry,  to  jog  our 
memory  so  often  when  we  might  be  in  danger 
of  hero-worship.  It  is  very  kind  in  them  to 
read  us  a  chapter  on  New-England  witchcraft 
now  and  then,  to  keep  us  humble.  It  was  bad 
business,  as  we  sa\4  before,  that  crusade  against 
witchcraft.  What  could  Cotton  Mather  and 
his  satellites  have  been  thinking  about  ?  We 
have  no  disposition  to  say  much,  if  anything, 
by  way  of  apology  for  that  stain  on  the  charac- 
ter of  the  Puritans  ;  though  every  one  who  un- 
derstands those  remarkable  men  must  admit 
that  this  crusade  resulted  from  a  misguided 


186 


MODERN  WITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


religious  zeal  ratlier  than  malice.    This  we 
claim  for  them — no  more. 

But  why  are  these  sincere,  though  misguided 
men,  pointed  at  as  solitary  examples  of  this 
foolish,  groundless,  wicked  superstition  ?  Did 
they  stand  alone  in  the  thing?  Not  by  any 
means.  We  are  quite  content  to  let  the  history 
of  witchcraft  speak  for  itself;  all  we  ask  is, 
that  it  shall  tell  the  whole  truth.  Then  we 
think  it  will  be  clear  enough,  that  in  this  not 
very  laudable  trade  of  witch-hunting  and  witch- 
killing,  the  Puritans  were  not  "  sinners  above 
all  the  Galileans,  because  they  did  these  things." 
Enter  history,*  with  a  rather  voluminous  manu- 
script. 

The  belief  that  certain  individuals  have  su- 
pernatural power  over  their  fellow-creatures, 
is  by  no  means  of  recent  origin.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  those  spiritual  possessions,  the  exist- 
ence of  which,  antecedent  to  the  Christian  era, 
is  generally,  almost  universally,  admitted  by  the 
Christian  world,  witchcraft,  in  some  form  or 
another,  has  had  a  prominent  place  in  every 
system  of  pagan  mythology.  At  the  advent 
of  Christ,  the  existence  of  witches  was  uni- 
versally credited  in  the  Roman  empire.  Witch- 
craft was  punishable,  too,  though  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  practice — pretended  or  real — 
of  the  arts  so  denominated,  was  considered  an 
offence  against  religion.  After  Constantine  had 
made  nominal  Christianity  popular,  as  everybody 
knows  or  may  know,  the  opinions  and  dogmas 
of  the  old  Roman  mythology  were  made  to 
coalesce  with  the  doctrines  of  Scripture ;  or 
rather,  Paganism  was  Christianized.  The  rude 
uncouth  system  of  Rome,  which  borrowed  so 
much  from  the  superstitions  of  the  Northmen, 
was  gilded  over  with  Christianity.  So  far  as 
religion  was  concerned,  the  revolution  of  Con- 
stantine did  little  else  than  to  substitute  new 
names  for  old  ones.  The  things  remained,  to 
a  great  extent,  unchanged.  Only  the  grosser 
pagan  observances  were  abolished.  The  super- 
stitions of  the  old  rigime  were  transferred  to 
the  new.  The  notions  about  witchcraft,  some 
of  which  have  pretty  strong  marks  of  Scandi- 
navian origin,  were  all  retained,  substantially. 
They  were  modified,  greatly  modified — so  was 
everything  else,  in  fact — trfsuit  the  genius  of 

•  tor  ihe  authorities  on  which  most  of  the  facts 
stated  in  this  article  arc  founded,  as  well  ns  for 
more  minute  information  on  the  general  subject, 
see  Dr.  Hutchinson's  History  of  Witchcraft,  For- 
eign Quarterly  Review,  No.  XI ,  1830,  and  Cham- 
bers's Information  for  the  People,  art.  Superslilions. 


the  Christian  system.  Very  soon  the  pooi 
witches,  who  had  previously  suffered  only  from 
the  state,  began  to  be  hunted  down  by  the 
Church.  Witchcraft  became  a  great  offence 
against  religion,  as  well  as  the  civil  law.  That 
was  natural  enough.  It  was  precisely  the  re- 
sult that  we  might  have  anticipated  ;  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  generally  recognized  principles 
of  government  at  that  time,  it  was  right,  too. 
Nay,  it  was  right,  (and  this  is  a  pretty  signifi- 
cant fact,)  according  to  the  principles  of  the 
law-makers  and  law-executors  of  England, 
France  and  Germany,  now  !  If  the  state  was 
right — according  to  the  standard  set  up  by  those 
who  wed  together  the  civil  and  religious  insti- 
tutions of  the  nation — if  the  state  was  right  in 
its  estimate  of  the  matter  of  witchcraft,  then 
the  state  was  right  in  nerving  the  arm  of  the 
ecclesiastical  power,  and  the  Church  was  right 
in  striking  those  terrible  blows,  the  records  Of 
which  are  some  of  the  darkest  stains  on  the 
face  of  modern  history.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
however,  it  was  a  dark  day  for  the  nominally 
Christian  world,  when  the  Church  was  set  a 
witch-hunting.  That  memorable  day  occurred 
in  the  latter  lialf  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

In  1484  a  famous  bull  was  issued  by  Pope 
Innocent,  enjoining,  in  the  strongest  terms, 
upon  inquisitors,  and  other  faithful  subjects,  to 
ferret  out  and  to  punish  all  such  as  were  guilty 
of  the  sin  of  witchcraft.  The  commission  was 
put  into  the  hands  of  one  Sprenger ;  a  man, 
who,  it  would  seem,  wanted  neither  the  blood- 
thirsty spirit  nor  the  superstitious  zeal  necessary 
to  carry  out  the  plans  of  His  Holiness.  Then 
came  speedily  a  regular  form  of  trial  for  sus- 
pected witches — a  form  that  afterwards  went 
by  the  name  of  the  malleus  malejicarum — the 
hammer  for  witches.  All  the  judges,  in  their 
trials  of  suspected  persons,  were  required  to 
use  this  hammer.  Furious  blows  were  dealt  by 
it.  There  never  was  a  hammer  in  a  smith's 
forge  tliat  could  make  more  terrible  havoc. 
And  Sprenger  was  a  very  Vulcan  in  the  use  of 
it.  Moreover,  the  metal  they  had  to  work  upon 
was  not  always  very  soft.  They  had  to  strike 
it  pretty  hard,  sometimes,  to  make  it  malleable. 

But  Uie  edict  of  Innocent  was  strengthened 
by  subsequent  bulls.  Alexander  VI.,  Leo  X., 
and  Adrian  VI. — the  latter  about  the  year 
1622 — each  contributed  something  by  way  of 
adding  to  the  weight  and  efficiency  of  the  mal- 
leus malejicarum.  The  public  mind  was  in  a 
fever  of  excitement  about  witchcraft  at  the  end 
of  the  fifteenth  century.    It  is  astonishing,  the 


MODERN  WiTCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


187 


ravages  of  this  absurd  superstition,  from  tliis 
time  onward,  for  more  than  a  liundred  years. 
But  the  influence  of  superstition,  when  con- 
nected with  religion,  and  when  it  virtually 
becoiues  religious  frenzy,  is  like  the  mountain 
torrent,  leaping  and  foaming,  and  gathering 
strength  from  its  own  impetus  and  from  its 
tributaries ;  lashed  into  greater  furj"^  by  every 
obstacle,  until  it  overwhelms  and  destroys  every- 
thing in  its  course.  Need  we  any  other  argu- 
ment than  this — the  absolute,  blind,  intolerant 
anarchy  of  superstition — to  prove  that  the  union 
of  the  civil  and  the  ecclesiastical  power  is  an 
adulterous  union,  and  one  that  must  be  fruitful 
of  a  fearful  amount  of  mischief? 

The  power  very  generally  ascribed  to 
witches — or  rather,  perhaps,  to  the  evil  spirit 
who  instigated  them — at  this  period  was  well 
nigh  omnipotent.  "  They  have  a  way  of  work- 
ing," remarks  an  old  writer,  quoted  by  Dr. 
Hutchinson,  "by  severall  elements — earth, 
water,  ayre,  or  fire.  Indeed,"  he  continues, 
"  who  can  tell  all  the  manner  of  wayes  of  a 
witch's  working — that  workes  jiot  only  darkly 
and  closely,  but  variously  and  versatilly,  as  God 
will  permit,  the  devill  can  suggest,  or  the  mali- 
cious hag  devise  to  put  in  practice  ?"  It  must 
not  be  supposed  that  this  superstition  was  con- 
fined to  a  few  bigoted  ecclesiastics,  and  some 
scores  of  ignorant  persons  in  humble  life.  It 
pervaded  the  whole  community.  Leading  men 
— professors  in  the  universities,  eminent  jurists, 
learned  Jesuits  and  cardinals,  kings  and  popes — 
all,  or  nearly  all,  unless  they  were  acknowl- 
edged infidels,  believed  in  the  reality  of  these 
possessions  by  the  devil,  and  the  absurd  and  lu- 
dicrous antics  he  incited  them  to  perform. 

The  witches  "  send  out  their  imps  or  famil- 
iars," remarks  the  sage  chronicler  of  these  ex- 
ploits already  quoted — and  his  liistory  was 
deemed  authentic  and  indisputable  at  the  time — 
"  they  send  out  their  imps  or  familiars,  to 
crosse  the  way,  justle,  atTront,  flash  in  the  face, 
barke,  howl,  bite,  scratch,  or  otherwise  infest" 
their  victims.  On  the  whole,  we  do  not  think 
it  very  remarkable,  that,  considering  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  the  universality  of  the  be- 
lief in  witchcraft  at  that  period,  so  judicious  a 
man  as  Luther  should  imbibe  the  notion  that 
the  fiend  of  darkness  made  predatory  excursions 
to  this  planet,  which  we  might  deem  somewhat 
beneath  the  dignity  of  this  personage,  and  that, 
in  some  of  his  nocturnal  visits,  he  maliciously 
stole  hickory  nuts  and  cracked  them  against 
the  bed-posts ! 


If  a  person  was  suspected  of  witchcraft,  and 
was  brought  before  the  proper  tribunal,  when  the 
fever  was  at  its  height,  he  was  condemned  almost 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  sent  to  the  stake.  It 
was  believed  that  when  the  arch-fiend  inducted 
persons  into  his  ser^•ice,  he  stamped  upon  them 
certain  marks ;  and  if  an  accused  individual 
did  not  first  confess,  she  was  immediately  ex- 
amined for  these  marks.  If  they  were  found — 
and  as  they  were  very  various  in  their  form,  it 
was  not  difficult  to  find  them — that  was  suffi- 
cient evidence  of  guilt,  and  death  was  the  inva- 
riable verdict — for  witches  must  not  live,  of 
course.*  If  these  marks  were  not  found,  tor- 
ture was  resorted  to.  Confession  was  frequent- 
ly the  result — the  poor  victims  preferring  death 
to  tortures  of  the  Inquisition — and  they  were 
led  to  execution. 

On  the  Continent,  vast  numbers  were  exe- 
cuted for  this  imaginary  crime.  In  a  single 
year — that  of  1485 — one  inquisitor,  in  the 
county  of  Burlia,  burned  forty-one.  In  Pied- 
mont, another  inquisitor  burned  one  hundred  in 
a  year.  In  1524,  upwards  of  a  thousand  were 
burned  in  the  diocese  of  Como,  and  for  several 
years  after  that,  there  were  at  least  a  hundred 
victims. 

In  Germany,  the  fever  raged  frightfully.  For 
a  century  and  a  half  after  the  publication  of 
Innocent's  bull,  no  part  of  that  country  was 
free  from  the  devastating  influence  of  the  cru- 
sade against  witchcraft.  In  a  period  of  little 
more  than  two  years,  from  about  1627  to  1629, 
one  hundred  and  fifty-seven  persons  were  exe- 
cuted at  Wurtzburg.  In  this  list  are  fourteen 
vicars  of  the  cathedral.  In  Lindheim,  a  dis- 
trict containing  at  most,  at  that  time,  only  six 
hundred  inhabitants,  one  twentieth  of  the  whole 
population  were  put  to  death  in  four  years. 
"  How  dreadful  are  the  results," — we  quote 
from  an  excellent  article  in  the  Foreign  Quar- 
terly Review, — "  to  which  these  data  lead  !  If 
we  take  one  hundred  and  fifty-seven  as  the  fair 
average  of  the  executions  at  Wurtzburg,  the 
number  of  the  executions  there,  in  the  course 
of  the  century  preceding  1 628,  would  be  ffleen 
thousand  and  seven  hundred!  If  Bainberg, 
Paderborn,  Treves,  and  the  other  Catholic 
bishoprics,  whose  zeal  was  not  less  ardent,  fur- 
nished an  equal  number,  and  if  they  vied,"  as 
history  warrants  us  in  believing  they  did,  "  with 

•  "Thou  shalt  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live." — Exod. 
xxii.  18.  That  command  was  deemed  a  suificient 
warrant  in  the  sixteenth  century. 


188 


MODERN  WITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


the  Catholics,  in  the  extent  to  which  these 
cruelties  were  carried,  the  number  of  victims, 
from  the  date  of  Innocent's  bull,"  in  1484,  "to 
the  final  extinction  of  these  persecutions,  must 
have  considerably  exceeded  one  hundred  thou- 
sand, in  Germany  alone  !" 

From  these  bloody  scenes,  the  mind  of  the  i 
historian  turns  away  in  horror.    But  to  what 


oasis  in  the  Christian  world,  unstained  with 
the  gore  of  victims  to  this  Moloch,  shall  he 
retreat?  Shall  he  cross  the  Channel,  and 
seek  for  that  city  of  refuge  in  England  and 
Scotland  ?  What  says  the  voice  of  history 
concerning  our  fatherland,  during  the  era  of 
witchcraft  ?     We  shall  see. 


CHAPTER    II. 


The  superstitions  of  England  and  Scotland — 
those  which  have  obtained  the  strongest  hold 
upon  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  which  have 
exerted  the  most  influence — are  essentially  bor- 
rowed from  the  Northmen.  They  bear  indisput- 
able marks  of  Scandinavian  origin.  And  just 
here,  we  cannot  help  saying,  somewhat  irreve- 
rently, we  fear,  that  the  Anglo-Saxons,  take 
them  as  a  race,  apart  from  all  modifying  and  re- 
deeming influences,  are,  in  our  view,  the  most 
superstitious  people  on  the  globe.  Britain,  and 
Scotland  especially,  was  a  perfect  play-ground 
of  the  fairies,  from  the  time  that  the  Saxons  first 
honored  the  island  with  their  presence  until  a 
very  recent  period.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  even  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth — an  era  we  so  love  to  emblazon  with 
glory— the  elves  and  fairies,  if  we  may  credit 
their  history,  written  by  learned  scribes  at  the 
time,  were  performing  all  manner  of  antics  in 
Scotland,  and  occasionally  riding  through  Eng- 
land. They  used  to  have  caverns,  it  would 
seem,  where  they  manufactifred  arrow-heads — 
elf  arrow-heads — with  which  they  and  the 
witches  did  so  much  mischief.  The  arch-fiend 
used  to  help  them  in  this  business,  too — so  says 
the  history  of  the  times — finishing  up  and  point- 
ing the  darts,  after  the  elves  had  roughly 
formed  (hem  from  the  flint.  From  these  caverns 
the  fairies  emerged,  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
and.mountedon  broomsticks,  corn-stalks,  rushes, 
and  such  other  vehicles  as  liked  them  best, 
they  rode  through  the  country ;  and  oh,  what 
havoc  they  made  with  the  cats  and  dogs,  the 


geese  and  hens,  and  even  the  men  and  women, 
that  they  marked  out  as  their  victims ! 

We  should  not,  in  this  connection,  allude  to 
these  superstitious  notions  of  our  ancestors,  if 
they  had  been  confined  to  a  few  weak,  ignorant, 
and  obscure  peasants.  They  were  not  so  con- 
fined. The  wisest  men  and  women  in  Scot- 
land credited  these  absurdities.  With  a  great 
portion  of  the  people  a  notion  of  the  existence 
and  supernatural  power  of  elves,  witches,  and 
wizards,  was  just  as  much  an  article  of  faith  as 
the  Apostles'  Creed.  If,  in  the  age  of  the  fifth 
James,  any  persons  had  dared  openly  to  avow 
their  belief  that  there  were  not  in  the  Scottish 
realm  multitudes  of  elfin  spirits,  who  raised 
whirlwinds,  and  shot  invisible  arrows  at  men 
and  beasts,  they  would  have  been  branded  as 
heretics,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  turned  over 
by  the  Church  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  sec- 
ular power.  The  Rev.  Robert  Kirke,  a  resi- 
dent among  the  Highland  Scotch,  and  the  first 
translator  of  the  Psalms  into  Gaelic  verse,  com- 
piled an  essay,  which  was  printed  at  the  time,  as 
an  instructive  and  edifying  pamphlet,  and  has 
during  the  present  century  been  reprinted  for 
tlic  amusement  of  those  not  quite  so  credulous, 
entitled,  "  On  tlie  Subterranean  and  for  the 
most  part  Invisible  People,  heretofore  going  un- 
der the  name  of  Elves,  Fawnes,  and  Fairies, 
and  the  like."  In  this  essay,  the  reverend  and 
learned  author  describes  the  fairy  people  as  a 
race  between  the  human  and  the  angelic.  He 
accuses  them  of  stealing  children,  and  of  name- 
less other  crimes  ;  tells  us  what  kind  of  litera- 


MODERN  WITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


189 


ture  they  used ;  how  they  proved  their  arrows, 
and  how  they  shot  them,  so  as  to  wound  their 
victims  without  breaking  the  skin.  But  the 
poor  minister  had  to  suffer  cruelly — so  his  suc- 
cessor informs  us  it  was  generally  believed — 
for  his  rashness  in  prying  into  their  mysteries. 
The  good  man  was  walking  one  evening  on  a 
fairy  mountain  in  the  vicinity  of  his  parsonage, 
when  he  sank  down  in  a  fit,  which  the  unen- 
lightened took  to  be  death,  while  the  Scottish 
sages  knew  it  was  a  swoon  produced  by  the 
fairies  whose  naughty  practices  he  had  e.xposed. 
The  influence  of  a  more  enlightened  religious 
faith,  resulting  from  the  creed,  or  rather  the 
policy  of  Elizabeth,  went  far  toward  the  ban- 
ishment of  those  superstitious  notions  about  the 
fairies,  among  the  more  intelligent,  at  least. 
But  the  great  mass  of  the  people  were  as  su- 
perstitious as  ever.  The  change  that  took 
place  was  only  in  the  objects  of  superstition. 
Witches  were  substituted  for  elves  and  fairies, 
in  the  generally  received  creed  of  England  and 
Scotland  ;  and  the  new  creed  was  a  thousand- 
fold more  mischievous  in  its  practical  influ- 
ence than  the  old  one.  A  writer  during  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  or  soon  after,  supposed  to  be 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  Bishop  of  Oxford, 
has,  in  an  ingenious  satire,  quoted  by  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  in  his  excellent  work  on  Demonology, 
fixed  the  period  of  the  decline  of  elfism — if  our 
readers  will  tolerate  the  word — in  the  latter  part 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  Thus  runs  one  stanza 
of  his  satirical  song  : — 

"  Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  reign. 

On  many  a  grassy  plain ; 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James,  came  in, 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been." 

There  was  a  good  reason  enough,  apart  from 
the  one  which  the  royal  bishop  would  assign, 
why  James  did  not  have  much  to  do  with  the 
elf  matter ;  for  if  the  voice  of  history  is  to  be 
credited,  to  say  notliing  about  some  statutes  to 
which  his  sapient  mind  gave  birth,  he  was 
so  zealously  and  piously  engaged  in  a  crusade 
against  witches,  that  he  had  little  leisure  to 
attend  to  the  fairies  of  his  native  hills. 

The  era  of  witchcraft  in  Scotland — to  go 
back  a  few  years — began  with  this  James. 
There  were,  it  is  true,  a  few  executions  before 
him ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  this  modern  Solo- 
mon to  reduce  witchcraft  to  a  kind  of  science  by 


his  profound  spiritual  vision.  Catching  the  en- 
thusiastic zeal  that  characterized  the  heresy- 
hunters  of  the  Continent  some  years  previous 
to  his  day,  and  not  wishing  to  be  behind  the 
Catholics  at  all  in  his  measures  against  witch- 
craft, he  early  distinguished  himself  in  Scot- 
land, by  throwing  all  sorts  of  missiles  at  the 
poor  witches.  And  his  antipathy  to  this  gentrj' 
was  natural  enough,  when  we  come  to  look 
at  the  facts.  James  honestly  believed  he  was 
about  the  wisest  and  most  godly  man  that  ever 
lived,  and  that  wisdom  and  piety  would  both  be 
likely  to  depart  from  the  world  when  he  died. 
On  this  account,  he  conscientiously  thought  that 
his  majesty,  the  arch-fiend,  cherished  an  especial 
dislike  to  his  majesty,  the  Scottish  monarch,  and 
that  the  former  was  determined  to  dethrone  the 
saint,  and  hold  the  reins  of  government  in  his 
own  hands  as  aforetime.  Whether  James  was 
right  in  his  suspicions  touching  Satan  or  not, 
does  not  signify  much ;  but  there  are  those, 
among  whom  we  must  rank  ourselves,  who 
think  that,  contrariwise,  the  Prince  of  darkness 
had  little  cause  for  grumbling  at  the  way  things 
were  managed  either  by  James  the  Sixth  of 
Scotland,  or  James  the  First  of  England.  That 
is  a  mere  matter  of  opinion,  however. 

We  wonder  if  the  Scottish  witches  are  iden- 
tical with  the  weird  sisters  in  INIacbeth  ?  They 
seem  to  be.  There  is  a  striking  similarity  be- 
tween the  dancing  of  Shakspeare's  witches 
around  a  boiling  cauldron,  and  some  of  the 
capers  ascribed  to  the  real  witches  of  history, 
by  those  whom  James  examined,  and  who  used 
to  contribute  so  much  to  the  "  admiration  of  the 
king's  majestic,"  to  use  the  phraseology  of  the 
times. 

In  1690,  James  made  a  tour  to  Denmark,  to 
make  love  to  the  Princess  Anne,  and  to  bring 
her  home  as  a  bride.  Soon  after  his  return,  a 
most  wonderful  witch  conspiracy  was  discov- 
ered, in  which  persons  of  considerable  distinc- 
tion were  implicated.  The  witches,  according 
to  unimpeachable  testimony,  tried  to  drown  his 
majesty  on  his  passage  home  ;  but  he  was  such 
a  shrewd  man,  and  so  holy  withal — we  pre- 
sume, tliough  that  is  not  stated — that  he  es- 
caped. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  those  who 
were  charged  with  witchcraft,  in  so  many  cases 
confessed  the  crime.  In  some  instances,  doubt- 
less, it  was  done  under  the  influence  of  threats 
and  tortures ;  but  in  others,  it  appears  to  have 
been  a  voluntary  confession.  Many  individuals, 
we  can  scarcely  doubt,  were  so  infatuated  about 


lao 


MODERN  WITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


the  matter,  that  they  really  supposed  themselves 
possessed  by  evil  spirits.  This  was  true  with 
a  woman  named  Agnes  Sampson,  wlio  lived  in 
Scotland  at  this  period,  and  who,  we  believe, 
was  charged  with  having  something  to  do  in  the 
matter  of  the  tempest  wlien  James  was  on  his 
way  home  from  Denmark.  The  king  had  a 
long  examination  of  this  woman,  and  even  su- 
perintended the  tortures  resorted  to  for  the  pur- 
pose of  forcing  her  to  confess.  Agnes  declared 
that  one  great  object  of  Satan  and  his  council 
was  to  destroy  the  king ;  and  that  the  witches, 
at  his  instigation,  and  under  his  direction,  were 
m  the  habit  of  holding  frequent  conventions  to 
deliberate  upon  the  best  method  of  effecting 
their  object.  She  confessed,  particularly,  that 
upon  a  certain  night  she  and  other  witches,  to 
the  number  of  some  two  hundred,  went  to  sea, 
each  in  a  riddle  or  sieve  ;  and  that  the  whole 
fleet,  after  having  a  right  merry  time  of  it 
during  the  voyage,  landed  at  a  certain  place, 
where  they  took  hold  of  each  other's  hands  and 
danced,  singing  at  the  same  time  a  song — 
which  she  repeated,  but  which  is  too  silly  to 
be  quoted  here.  These  revelations,  in  the 
words  of  Hutchinson,  "  made  the  king  in  a 
wonderful  admiration,"  and  he  had  one  of  the 
witches  '•  play  the  daunce  before  the  king's 
majestic,  who,  in  respect  of  the  strangeness  of 
these  matters,  took  great  delight  to  be  present 
at  these  examinations." 

It  may  be  worth  a  moment's  notice,  to  look 
into  the  specific  charges  against  Agnes  and  her 
associates,  in  order  to  ascertain  what  it  was 
that  so  edified  the  Scottish  king,  and  "  made 
him  in  a  wonderful  admiration.^'  The  records 
of  the  court  show  the  following  among  many 
other  equally  important  items,  in  the  deposition 
of  witnesses  :  "  Item.  She  went  with  the  witch 
of  Carrickburn,  and  other  witches,  in  a  boat, 
the  devil  going  before  them,  like  a  stack  of  hay. 
Item.  The  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  dog,  gave  her 
responses  concerning  her  laird's  recovery,  and 
endeavored  to  putawa  ano  ofthe  ladies' daugh- 
ters. Item.  She  raised  a  universal  great  storm 
in  the  sea,  when  the  queen  was  coming  to 
Scotland,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  that  effect  to  a 
witch  at  Leith."  For  these  and  similar  misde- 
meanors, poor  Agnes  Sampson  suffered  death, 
of  courBe. 

The  case  of  Margaret  Barclay,  which  oc- 
curred in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, by  no  means  a  remarkable  one  in  the  an- 
nalsof  witchcrad,  proves  conclusively,  we  think, 
that  the  witches  themselves  were  infatuated ;  and 


that,  occasionally,  at  least,  they  supposed  them- 
selves possessed  of  supernatural  powers,  de- 
rived from  the  spirit  of  evil.  This  is  an  impor- 
tant fact,  tending,  we  cannot  but  think,  to  throw 
light  upon  the  causes  of  the  universal  belief  in 
witchcraft  at  that  time.  And  here — though  it 
was  no  part  of  our  intention  when  wo  com- 
menced this  article,  to  inquire  into  the  philoso- 
phy of  witchcraft,  and  to  attempt,  by  reference 
to  any  of  the  known  laws  of  mind  in  connec- 
tion with  the  nervous  system,  to  explain  the 
phenomena,  confessedly  wonderful,  exhibited 
in  the  cases  of  many  of  the  witches,  otherwise 
than  to  resolve  them  generally  into  supersti- 
tion— we  must  call  attention  to  one  of  an  excel- 
lent series  of  letters  "  On  the  Truths  contained 
in  Popular  Superstitions,"  to  be  found  in  suc- 
cessive numbers  of  Blackwood's  Magazine, 
recently  published.  In  the  letter  which  appears 
in  the  June  number,  there  are  some  hints 
thrown  out,  as  to  the  reasons  for  the  popular 
belief  in  witchcraft,  which  are  deserving  of 
serious  thought.  For  our  own  part,  we  are 
free  to  admit  that  the  reasons  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  his  truly  admirable  work  on  Demon- 
ology — reasons  generally  received  as  good  and 
satisfactory — have  never  been  sufficient  in  out 
own  mind  to  account  for  the  phenomena.  But 
we  must  not  be  understood  as  having  unquali- 
fiedly adopted  the  theory  of  the  writer  in  Black- 
wood. 

Let  us  probe  this  matter  of  Margaret  Bar- 
clay a  little.  This  woman  was  angry  with  a 
certain  provost,  who  sailed  for  France.  She 
wished  to  destroy  his  life.  So  she,  in  com- 
pany with  two  or  three  other  equally  amiable 
women — thus  the  evidence  runs — made  a  figure 
of  clay,  to  represent  the  said  provost,  and  con- 
structed a  ship  in  miniature  of  the  saine  mate- 
rial. While  the  company  were  engaged  in  this 
business,  in  came  the  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a 
black  lap-dog,  and  assisted  them.  Then  they 
all  went  together  to  the  sea-side — this  was  soon 
after  the  provost's  vessel  left  port,  recollect — 
and  threw  the  figures  into  the  sea ;  immediately 
after  which  the  sea  raged,  roared,  aud  became 
red,  like  the  juice  of  madder!  The  whole  of 
this,  and  much  more,  Margaret  confessed.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add,  that  the  unfortunate 
girl  was  strangled  at  the  stake,  and  her  body 
burned  to  ashes.  This  was  not  all.  Several 
other  persons,  implicated  with  her,  followed  her 
soon  after  to  the  stake. 

The  persecution  continued,  though  not  quite 
as  violently,  alter  the  removal  of  James  to  Eng- 


MODERN  AVITCHCRAFT  IN  EUROPE. 


lyi 


land.  It  must  be  confessed,  too,  that  it  was 
very  active  during  the  era  of  the  Puritans,  and 
tor  some  time  after  the  Restoration.  The  last 
justiciary  trial  for  witchcraft  in  Scotland,  oc- 
cmred  as  late  as  1772;  when  an  old  woman 
was  condemned  by  David  Ross,  sheriff  of 
Caithness.    It  would  be  difficult  to  compute  the 


exact  number  of  those  who,  in  this  countiy, 
suffered  death  for  this  imaginary  crime  ;  be- 
cause many  of  the  trials,  being  in  obscure  dis- 
tricts, were  not  matters  of  record.  But  the 
black  scroll  includes,  according  to  Hutchinson, 
and  others  who  have  inquired  carefully  into 
the  subject,  upwards  oi four  thousand  persons  ! 


CHAPTER    III. 


A  SINGULAR  class  of  people,  take  tliem  alto- 
gether, were  the  English  Puritans.  But  then 
they  lived  in  singular  times.  The  era  of  the 
first  and  second  Charles  was  a  great  transition 
era  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  history.  No  one  now 
pretends  to  doubt  that  the  order  of  things  which 
succeeded  this  era  was  preferable  to  the  old 
regime,  however  severely  some  may  reprobate 
the  character  of  the  men  who  introduced  the 
change,  and  the  measures  they  adopted  to  gain 
their  end ;  and  as  desperate  diseases  require 
desperate  treatment,  we  are  not  sure  but  the 
sternness  and  roughness,  the  zeal  and  enthu- 
siasm, the  impatience  and  recklessness,  of  the 
Puritan  character,  were  the  only  elements 
adequate  to  the  times.  But  be  that  as  it  may, 
there  was  little  remarkable  in  the  zeal  of  the 
Puritans,  either  of  Old  England  or  New,  so  far  as 
the  matter  of  witchcraft  was  concerned.  They 
did  not  originate  the  crusade  against  the  poor 
witches.  They  helped  in  carrying  it  on — there 
is  no  disputing  that.  But  by  what  metamorphosis 
of  history  are  they  made  out  to  be  witch-hunters, 
'par  excellence  ?  It  is  ordinarily  held  to  be  no  more 
than  civil,  we  believe,  to  "  give  the  devil  his 
due."  Common  law  seems  to  accord  as  much 
to  him.  But  really,  some  persons  treat  the 
Puritans  with  a  great  deal  less  civility  than  the 
conventional  canons  of  courtesy  concede  to  this 
arch  outlaw.  I^et  us  throw  up  a  few  spade- 
fuls of  English  history,  and  examine  it  a  little. 
Lot  us  gee  if  there  was  not  a  pretty  formidable 
army  of  witches  in  our  fatherland,  long  enough 
before  Cotton  Mather  or  Oliver  Cromwell  was 
thought  of. 

It  is  perhaps  of  little  importance  to  know  at 
what  period,  definitely,  our  ancestors  began  to 
regard  witchcraft  as  an  ecclesiastical  and  civil 
offence,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  ascertain. 
Doubtless,  however,  the  bull  of  Innocent,  be- 
fore alluded  to,  had  an  influence  in  rousing 
public  attention  to  the  subject  in  England,  as 


well  as  on  the  continent..  At  any  rate,  we 
know  that  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  witch- 
craft was  denounced  by  severe  statutes.  Under 
Elizabeth,  too,  another  statute  was  framed. 
But  it  does  not  appear  that  the  crime  was  often 
punished  by  death,  until  after  the  time  of  this 
princess  ;  though  there  is  at  least  one  case  on 
record,  in  which,  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
two  or  three  supposed  witches  were  executed. 
An  old  man,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  were 
tried  at  Huntingdon,  for  having  bewitched  some 
children.  The  children,  it  appears,  had  fits, 
and  the  old  man  and  his  family  were  suspected 
of  using  a  charm  to  produce  the  paroxysms. 
One  of  the  children  was  the  principal  witness 
in  the  case.  The  trial  must  have  been  ludi- 
crous enough.  The  bewitched  child  was 
brought  into  the  court-room  in  a  fit,  and  one 
of  the  accused  persons  was  required  to  repeat 
a  charm,  which,  according  to  the  evidence, 
was  the  one  employed  to  bring  the  child  out 
of  her  fits.  The  woman  repeated  the  charm — 
the  girl  immediately  came  out  of  the  fit.  The 
sentence  of  death  followed,  and  the  unhappy 
family  were  executed,  steadily  maintaining  their 
innocence,  on  the  4th  April,  1593. 

We  come  now  to  the  reign  of  James — "  the 
most  high  and  mighty  Prince  James,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  King  of  Great  Britain,  France  and 
Ireland,  Defender  of  the  Faith,"  and  we  know 
not  what  else.  As  soon  as  he  was  comfortably 
seated  on  the  throne,  he  began  to  throw  out 
scintillations  of  his  wonderful  mind,  to  enlighten 
his  new  subjects  withal.  He  regarded  himself 
as  a  great  luminary — a  sort  of  Drummond  light 
— with  rays  of  wisdom  sufficient  to  keep  the 
whole  nation  in  a  perfect  blaze.  There  is  a 
difference  of  opinion,  however,  abroad  in  the 
world  about  this  luminary.  Some  are  disloyal 
enough  to  think  he  was  little  better  than  a 
Northern  light,  with  all  his  pretensions ;  and 
some  CO  so  far  as  to  hint  that  it  would  have 


192 


MODERN    WITCHCRAFT    IN    EUROPE. 


been  full  as  well  for  England,  if  the  light  liad 
never  proceeded  farther  south  than  Gretna 
Green  and  the  Tweed.  We  think  ourselves 
that  the  English  people  had  not  much  reason 
to  be  proud  of  the  Stuarts.  What  a  pity  that 
Elizabeth,  with  so  much  intellect,  had  so  little 
heart ;  that  among  all  the  languages  she  spoke 
so  fluently,  she  never  understood  the  dialect  of 
love ;  and  that  she  did  not  steal  time  enough 
from  state  affairs  to  woo  or  be  wooed.  But  let 
'that  pass.  James  set  his  pen  agoing  at  once 
in  framing  a  new  witch  code.  The  old  one 
w  IS  too  indulgent.  The  trap  would  not  catch 
all  the  game.  One  of  the  clauses  in  a  statute 
passed  in  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of  the  first 
Stuart,  which  he  wrote  with  his  own  hand,  was 
this : — "  Any  one  that  shall  use,  practice,  of 
exercise  any  invocation  of  any  evil  or  wicked 
spirit,  or  consult  or  covenant  with,  entertain  or 
employ,  feed  or  reward,  any  evil  or  wicked 
spirit,  to  or -for  any  purpose,  such  offenders, 
duly  and  lawfully  convicted  and  attainted,  shall 
suffer  death."  This  statute  was  the  fire-brand, 
that,  thrown  among  the  people,  already  strongly 
inclined  to  superstition,  made  a  bonfire  of  the 
whole  land  ;  and  for  more  than  a  century  the 
combined  wisdom  and  piety  of  the  nation  were 
unable  to  put  it  out  or  stay  its  fury.  Hundreds 
and  thousands  of  innocent  men,  women  and 
children  fell  victims  to  this  epidemical  frenzy. 

It  was  not  long  before  witch-finding  became 
a  profession  in  England ;  and  one  Matthew 
Hopkins,  an  infamous  wretch,  was  for  a  long 
time  at  the  head  of  this  class.  The  practices 
of  this  fiend  in  human  shape,  will  give  some 
idea  of  the  extent  and  alarming  nature  of  this 
superstition,  as  well  as  of  the  silly  tests  that 
were  depended  upon  to  determine  the  guilt  or 
innocence  of  suspected  persons.  From  each 
town  which  he  visited  Hopkins  exacted  the  fee 
of  twenty  shillings.  This  sum  was  paid  into 
his  pocket  from  the  public  purse,  and  he  stipu- 
lated that  for  this  sum  lie  would  clear  the  town 
of  witches.  It  was  supposed  that  those  who 
had  been  inducted  into  the  service  of  Satan 
had  received  in  some  part  of  their  body  a  kind 
of  ordination  seal.  Hence  one  of  the  first  ob- 
jects of  the  witch-finder  was  to  search  for  this 
seal.  If  any  unusual  mark  was  discovered,  it 
was  taken  to  be  the  work  of  the  devil,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  the  supposed  witch  was 
frequently  condemned  to  death  without  further 
ceremony.  But  sometimes  the  mark  could  not 
bs  found.  Then  pins  were  tlirust  into  difTurent 
parts  of  the  body,  in  order  to  discover  it.    The 


flesh  was  supposed  to  be  insensible  to  pain  in 
that  spot ;  and  if  the  pins  did  not  hurt  the 
wretched  prisoners  a  great  deal,  it  was  conclu- 
sive evidence  that  they  were  witches,  and  they 
were  executed.  Another  expedient  in  the 
witch  code  of  the  famous  Hopkins,  was  to  tie 
the  great  toes  and  thumbs  of  his  victims  to- 
gether, and  to  draw  them,  wrapped  in  sheets, 
through  ponds  of  water.  That  was  deemed  a 
meet  satisfactory  test.  It  was  ingenious,  cer- 
tainly. If  they  sunk,  they  were  cleared ;  if 
they  floated,  they  were  condemned  !  If  a  witch 
could  not  shed  tears  voluntarily,  in  the  language 
of  the  creed  of  Hopkins,  or  if  she  hesitated  at  a 
single  word  in  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer,  it 
was  a  sure  sign  she  was  in  league  with  the 
devil,  and  she  was  to  be  dealt  with  accordingly. 
However,  the  tide  of  popular  feeling  at  last 
turned  against  this  wholesale  murderer,  and  he 
came  pretty  near  being  caught  in  his  own  trap. 
After  he  had  pursued  his  trade  for  some  years, 
and  had  turned  several  hundreds  of  victims  over 
to  the  executioner,  a  party  of  mischievous  fel- 
lows caught  him,  and  tried  his  favorite  experi- 
ment upon  him.  It  is  said  that  he  escaped ; 
but,  at  any  rate,  nothing  was  ever  heard  of  him 
after  his  ducking.  The  ardor  of  his  fever 
seems  to  have  been  effectually  cooled.  There 
is  nothing  like  water-cure  in  some  diseases. 

Sir  Matthew  Hale  is  not  altogether  unknown 
to  fame.  Unless  w^e  greatly  mistake,  he  is  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  enlightened  and 
eminent  of  English  jurists.  But  history  informs 
us  that  this  man  tried  and  condemned  two 
women  for  witchcraft.  How  many  other  trials 
he  conducted,  we  do  not  know;  yet,  in  1664, 
Amy  Dunny  and  Rose  Calendar,  being  accused 
of  the  crime  of  bewitching  children,  and  being 
brought  before  Sir  Matthew,  were  adjudged, 
after  a  long  trial,  to  suffer  death.  The  children 
whom  the  women  were  accused  of  bewitching, 
were  brought  into  court,  and  on  being  touched 
by  the  witches,  fell  into  fits.  Were  the  arts  of 
Mesmer  understood  in  those  times  ?  Hale — 
the  learned  and  excellent  judge,  for  such  he 
was,  unquestionably — was  satisfied  that  Amy 
and  Rose  were  genuine  witches,  and  committed 
them  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  hangman  ! 

When  North  was  Chief  Justice,  he  set  him- 
self resolutely  against  the  witch  superstition. 
One  piece  of  imposture  which  was  often  prac- 
ticed by  those  professedly  under  the  influence 
of  some  superior  agent  of  Satan,  was  that  of 
pin-ro  •«77t/i_i>".  A  nrnle  sorcerer  stood  at  the 
bar  of  the  Chief  Justice,  and  his  supposed  vie- 


.MODERN     WITCHCRAFT    IN     EUROPE. 


193 


tim  was  in  court  as  a  witness,  vomiting  pins 
by  scores.  This  magistrate  was  a  shrewd 
man,  and  by  a  little  management,  discovered 
that  the  juggling  witness,  in  her  convulsions 
and  contortions,  obtained  fresli  supplies  of  pins 
by  dropping  her  head  dexterously  upon  her  bo- 
8<tm,  where  they  were  deposited.  The  prisoner 
was  acquitted. 

It  was  after  this,  however,  when  Holt  was 
Chief  Justice,  that  the  first  acquittal  took  place, 
in  the  face  of  all  the  evidence  before  regarded 
as  conclusive,  and  on  the  ground  solely  of  the 
absurdity  of  the  thing.  This  was  as  late  as 
1694.  A  woman,  accused  of  witchcraft,  was 
tried  by  a  jury  at  this  time,  and  found  not 
guilty  ;  though,  according  to  the  creed  of  Hop- 
kins, the  evidence  of  her  guilt  was  overwhelm- 
ing. It  must  not  be  supposed,  that  trials  for 
witchcraft  ceased  from  this  period.  Such  a 
notion  is  far  from  correct,  and  it  is  certain  that 
executions,  even — a  few  at  least — took  place 
at  a  much  later  date. 

In  1711,  Chief  Justice  Powell  presided  at  a 
trial  where  an  old  woman  was  pronounced 
guilty.  The  judge  seemed  to  have  been  in  a 
humorous  vein,  and  full  as  much  disposed  to 
have  a  little  fun  as  to  make  a  job  for  the  hang- 
man. One  of  the  charges  against  the  prisoner, 
it  seems,  was  that  she  had  frequent  interviews 
with  Satan,  who  transformed  himself  into  a  cat, 
and  conversed  with  the  woman  in  the  language 
peculiar  to  that  tribe  of  animals — a  somewhat 
unearthly  dialect,  it  must  be  confessed,  and  one 
which  we,  albeit  not  remarkably  superstitious 
or  imaginative,  have  at  times  fancied  had  a 
slightly  diabolical  accent.  The  judge  asked  the 
jury  this  categorical  question  :  "  Do  you  find  the 
woman  guilty  upon  the  indictment  of  conversing 
with  the  devil  in  the  shape  of  a  cat  ?"  The  reply 
was, "  We  do  find  her  guilty  of  that."  But  the 
question  was  put  in  such  a  way  as  to  turn  the 
whole  thing  into  ridicule  ;  and  the  result  was 
a  full  acquittal. 

We  might  very  rationally  conclude,  that  the 
farcical  issue  of  this  trial  would  have  had  the 
effect  to  put  an  end  to  the  ridiculous  era  of 
witchcraft.  But,  though  the  fury  of  the  storm 
had  subsided,  the  muttering  of  the  thunder,  as 
the  clouds  retired,  was  heard  for  several  years 
afterward.  It  was  not  until  the  year  1716, 
that  there  was  clear  sky.  Nor  are  we  sure 
that  the  sun  shone  then  very  brightly.     It  is 


hard  to  give  up  an  article  in  one's  creed  which 
he  has  believed  so  firmly,  and  which  his  ances- 
tors transmitted  to  him,  from  age  to  age.  These 
heir-looms  are  sometimes  cherished  with  won- 
derful affection,  just  because  they  are  heir- 
looms. People  do  not  always  stop  to  inquire 
whether  they  have  any  other  merit.  Indeed, 
in  their  estimation,  the  merit  of  antiquity  is  all- 
sufficient.  As  late  as  this  year — that  of  1716 
— Mrs.  Hicks  and  her  daughter,  only  nine 
years  of  age,  were  hung  at  Huntingdon  as 
witches.  The  charges  on  which  these  two  in- 
dividuals were  convicted  are  too  remarkable  to 
lie  concealed  among  the  rubbish  of  history. 
Our  readers  will  please  to  remember  that  this 
trial  occurred  but  a  little  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  in  the  most  enlightened  portion  of 
Christendom  !  The  charges  against  this  woman 
and  her  daughter  are,  that  "  they  sold  their 
souls  to  the  devil,  and  raised  a  storm  by  pulling 
off  their  stockings  and  making  a  lather  of  soap.^' 
The  catalogue  of  executions  in  England,  for 
the  crime  of  witchcraft,  so  far  as  we  have  been 
able  to  ascertain,  closes  with  this  ;  and  it  could 
scarcely  have  had  a  more  fitting  climax.  It 
was  not,  however,  until  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  that  the  statutes  of  Henry 
VIII.  and  his  successors  were  abolished. 

The  list  of  those  who  perished  in  England, 
as  the  offerings  to  this  Moloch,  is  frightful  in 
the  extreme.  Barrington,  in  his  observations 
on  these  statutes,  quoted  by  the  excellent 
writer  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  al- 
ready repeatedly  alluded  to,  does  not  hesitate 
to  estimate  the  number  at  thirty  thousand ! 

No  one,  with  tolerable  acuteness  of  percep- 
tion, can  help  perceiving  that  the  genius  of 
history,  in  the  matter  of  withcraft,  reads  to  us 
some  lessons  of  great  value.  The  one  promi- 
nent lesson,  however,  for  which,  we  confess,  we 
invoked  this  genius,  was  that  the  Puritans  of 
New-England,  in  their  superstitious  sentiments 
and  barbarous  measures  respecting  witchcraft, 
did  no  more  than  echo  the  sentiments  and  adopt 
the  measures  then  current  throughout  Europe. 
Would  it  not  be  wise,  then — to  say  nothing 
about  the  decorum  of  the  thing — for  those  who 
must  throw  sticks  and  stones  at  the  character 
of  the  Puritans — and  there  are  some  apostles 
who  appear  to  think  they  have  a  divine  com- 
mission to  do  so — to  select  some  other  missiles 
tlian  the  gibbets  of  the  seventeenth  century  ? 


194 


THE    ROYAL    EXECUTION. 


ei    33as»afle    from    tje    ^Qistorg    of    33etiro    1J)C    ©cuel, 

By    MRS.    ELLET. 


It  was  in  the  ancient  days  of  Castile,  that  a 
young  man,  who  carried  on  the  business  of  an 
armorer,  stood  in  the  door  of  his  dwelling,  in 
one  of  the  streets  of  Madrid,  late  on  a  summer 
afternoon,  watching,  apparently,  for  some  one 
to  pass  by. 

He  had  not  waited  long,  when  the  person  he 
wished  to  see  came  along  the  street.  It  was 
Michael,  the  goldsmith,  who  lived  near  at  hand, 
and  was  going  homeward. 

As  he  heard  himself  called  by  his  neighbor, 
the  goldsmith  stopped,  and,  beckoned  by  the  ar- 
morer, entered  his  house.  The  latter,  with  mys- 
terious looks,  and  saying  he  had  something  to 
communicate,  led  him  into  an  inner  apartment. 

"  I  pray  thee,  be  brief,"  said  Michael ;  "  I 
am  in  haste." 

"  What  I  have  to  say  touches  thee  nearly, 
Michael,"  answered  the  other,  "  and  may  well 
be  delivered  with  caution ;  yet  the  truth  need- 
eth  no  preface.  Know,  then,  that  the  pretty 
Fatimia  findeth  pastime  more  to  her  taste  in  thy 
absence  than  to  sell  jewels,  or  watch,  pensive, 
for  thy  return." 

"  What  meanest  thou  ?"  exclaimed  the  gold- 
smith.    "  My  wife " 

"  Thy  wife  holdeth  converse  with  a  gallant 
of  stately  bearing — one  of  the  nobility,  belike. 
At  noon  to-day  I  saw  him  enter  the  shop.  I 
watched  him  from  the  corner :  he  stayed  an 
hour  with  Fatimia,  and  came  forth  with  chains 
and  rings  he  had  bought  of  her.  I  saw  her  in 
pleasant  discourse  with  him  as  he  left  the  door, 
and  heard  him  promise  to  come  again  speedily." 

"  Villain  !  thou  beliest  her !"  cried  Michael, 
in  anger.  "  I  know  well  that  thou  hast  sought 
favor  from  Fatimia,  and  hast  felt  her  scorn !" 

"  I  ask  not  belief  for  words  of  mine,"  replied 
tiie  armorer.  "  Thou  may'st  see  for  thyself 
I  have  seen  the  same  gallant  walking  often 
through  the  streets,  and  marked  him  by  his 
haughty  mien.  Como  to-morrow,  at  noon ;  it 
may  be  he  will  return  at  that  time." 


The  goldsmith  assented,  gloomily,  and  went 
to  his  own  house,  where  his  young  wife  re- 
ceived him  with  a  cheerful  welcome.  His 
unwonted  sullenness  and  reserve,  however, 
checked  the  flow  of  her  confidence,  and  she 
did  not  tell  him,  as  she  meant,  all  that  had 
passed  during  the  day. 

Fatimia  was  beautiful — she  knew  it,  and 
loved  admiration.  The  compliments  she  re- 
ceived she  regarded  only  as  her  proper  tributes, 
and  repaid  them  with  bright  smiles.  Her  heart 
belonged  only  to  her  husband.  She  would  have 
told  him  all  that  happened,  but  his  jealousy  and 
quickness  to  anger  often  made  her  afraid  to 
speak  openly. 

Michael  left  home  the  next  morning  as  usual, 
saying  he  should  not  return  till  evening.  But 
he  went  no  further  than  the  dwelling  of  the  ar- 
morer, from  the  window  of  which  he  could  see 
whoever  passed  along  the  street. 

At  noon,  as  expected,  the  unknown  visitor 
of  the  fair  Fatimia  was  seen  to  go  towards  the 
goldsmith's  shop.  He  was  simply  dressed,  but 
his  aristocratic  air  and  noble  features  bespoke 
him  a  person  of  rank.  As  he  approached  the 
shop,  the  lovely  face  of  Fatimia,  wreathed  with 
smiles,  was  seen  at  the  window  a  moment ;  it 
quickly  vanished  ;  she  appeared  at  the  door, 
and  greeted  the  handsome  stranger,  who  bowed 
courteously  and  went  in. 

All  this  was  torture  to  the  jealous  Michael. 
His  rage  was  increased  by  the  taunting  looks 
and  whispered  inuendos  of  Giacomo,  the  ar- 
morer. Unable  longer  to  control  himself,  he 
rushed  out,  and  hastened  to  his  own  house, 
muttering  threats  of  vengeance.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  Giacomo,  who  wished  to  see  the 
sport. 

In  llie  midst  of  the  courtly  stranger's  flatter- 
ing speeches  to  tlie  beautiful  Fatimia,  and  her 
graceful  coquetries,  the  door  was  flung  oj)en. 
Michael  burst  in,  and  seizing  the  young  noble, 
dragged  him  towards  the  door.  A  violent  strug- 


THE    ROYAL    EXECUTION. 


195 


gie  ensued ;  but  it  was  soon  terminated.  The 
str.mger,  having  freed  his  right  hand,  drew  his 
dagger,  and  instantly  buried  it  in  the  breast  of 
the  goldsmith.  The  armorer,  who  had  pressed 
to  Ills  friend's  assistance,  shared  the  same  fate. 
Both  fell,  and  expired,  at  the  stranger's  feet. 
During  this  frightful  scene,  Fatimia  had  filled 
the  air  with  her  shrieks.  The  neighbors  ran 
towards  the  place  ;  the  police  came  up ;  and  the 
officer  of  the  guard  hastened  to  arrest  the  as- 
sassin. But  as  they  came  near,  and  met  his 
steadfast  look,  they  stopped  in  amazement. 
'•  The  king !''  broke  from  the  officer's  lips, 
while  the  guard  lowered  their  weapons.  "  The 
king  !"  was  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth 
among  tlie  crowd,  and  several  hurried  away, 
fearful  of  being  involved  in  the  consequences. 
The  royal  offender  himself,  undisturbed  by  any 
one,  walked  slowly  towards  the  castle. 

Not  long  after,  a  decree  was  sent  forth,  for- 
bidding any  of  Don  Pedro's  subjects,  on  pain  of 
death,  to  speak  of  the  strange  event  that  had 
transpired  in  the  capital.  The  same  day,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  haughty  monarch,  he 
received  a  citation  to  appear  before  the  criminal 
court,  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  murder. 

A  council  was  called  of  the  nobles  of  his 
court.  Don  Pedro  laid  the  citation  before 
them,  and  requested  their  advice  as  to  his 
reply.  There  was  a  murmured  consultation 
of  a  few  moments,  and  then  one  of  tliem  made 
answer : 

"  We  are  all  of  opinion,  may  it  please  your 
majesty,  that  in  serving  such  a  citation,  Don 
Henriquez,  the  chief  judge,  is  guilty  of  high 
treason,  and  deserveth  death." 

"  Nay,"  returned  the  king,  "  he  shall  not  die  ; 
but  he  shall  be  questioned,  whether  he  hath  lost 
his  reason  or  not,  that  he  dares  arraign  his  sove- 
reign as  a  criminal." 

The  message  was  conveyed  to  Don  Henri- 
quez. His  reply  was  :  "  The  mighty  king,  Don 
Pedro,  of  Castile,  hath  placed  me  in  office  to 
uphold  the  laws  in  his  capital  of  Madrid,  and  to 
punish  violence  and  wrong,  without  respect  to 
the  rank  of  the  offender.  Don  Pedro  is  guilty 
of  a  two-fold  murder,  and  the  law  is  his  accuser. 
He  is  bound  to  appear  at  the  tribunal,  to  hear 
the  accusation,  and  receive  the  sentence  that 
may  be  pronounced.  For  myself,  I  am  the 
king's  most  faithful  subject.  If  he  dismiss  me 
from  the  office  I  hold,  it  is  well ;  but  so  long  as 
I  am  chief  judge  in  Madrid,  I  must  do  my  duty. 
My  life  is  in  tlie  hand  of  God,  as  is  the  king's  ; 
and  both  of  us  shall  answer  before  Him." 


This  message  was  delivered  to  Don  Pedro, 
who  grew  pale  with  shame  and  anger  as  he 
heard  it.  There  was  a  murmur  of  indignation 
throughout  the  whole  court.  "  Let  the  traitor 
be  hanged,  and  that  instantly  !"  exclaimed  many 
voices. 

The  king  rose,  and  commanded  silence ;  then 
called  his  first  chamberlain. 

"  Go,"  he  said,  "  to  the  chief  judge,  even  Don 
Henriquez.  Say  to  him,  that  Don  Pedro  will 
obey  his  summons,  and  will  appear  before  the 
tribunal." 


The  day  of  trial  came.  The  king  appeared 
in  person  at  the  tribunal,  stern  and  proud  in 
demeanor,  but  prepared  to  submit  to  what  the 
law  required.  The  chief  judge  addressed  the 
subordinate  judges  and  the  accuser,  and  ad- 
monished them  that  they  were  not  to  permit  the 
rank  of  the  criminal  to  influence  their  judg- 
ment. "It  is  not  for  those,"  he  said,  "  whom 
God  hath  appointed  to  administer  the  laws,  to 
violate  them  with  impunity.  The  king  stands 
not  before  you  ;  it  is  but  the  Tnan,  accused  of 
taking  the  lives  of  his  fellow-beings." 

The  accuser  then  came  forward,  and  boldly 
made  his  charge.  Don  Pedro's  clandestine 
visits  to  the  goldsmith's  shop,  and  his  attempts 
to  win  the  favor  of  the  goldsmith's  handsome 
wife,  were  detailed  ;  also  his  encounter  with 
Michael,  wlien*he  came  to  expel  the  intruder, 
and  vindicate  the  honor  of  his  house  ;  with  the 
assassination  of  both  the  goldsmith  and  the  ar- 
morer. 

At  the  word  "  clandestine,"  a  slight  move- 
ment of  the  king's  features  was  seen,  and  he 
cast  an  angry  glance  at  the  speaker,  but  said 
nothing.  The  accuser  went  on  to  describe  the 
scene  of  blood,  painted  the  horrors  of  the  crime 
with  fearful  fidelity,  and  concluded  by  calling 
upon  the  judges  to  avenge  the  deed,  and  pun- 
ish the  murderer,  according  to  the  law  of  Cas- 
tile. 

The  chief  judge  then  called  upon  the  accused 
for  his  defence.  Don  Pedro  preserved  a  sullen 
silence.  A  pleader  was  authorized  to  speak 
for  him,  and  he  put  forth  his  best  efforts  in  be- 
half of  his  royal  client.  But  the  proof  the  crime 
was  clear.  The  chief  judge  then  pronounced 
sentence  upon  Don  Pedro,  found  guilty  of  two 
murders.  He  was  sentenced  to  have  his  head 
struck  off  in  the  public  market-place.  "  But," 
concluded  Don  Henriquez,  "  inasmuch  as  Don 
Pedro  is  our  anointed  sovereign,  and  his  person 
is  sacred,  our  sentence  must  be  executed  upon 


198 


RAMBLES    IN    WALES. 


BY    THE     EDITOH. 
PENRYNN   QUARRIES— HOMEWARD   BOUND— SCOTCH   BOY— STORM   AT   SEA— HOME, 


The  north  coast  of  Wales  is  studded  with  old 
castles — some  of  which  are  in  ruins,  and  others 
in  a  good  state  of  preservation.  Many  a  fierce 
struggle  and  wild  tale  they  could  tell,  could  they 
but  reveal  their  history.  Cromwell's  army  has 
thundered  against  their  walls,  and  England's 
chivalry  dashed  over  their  battlements;  and 
deeds  of  daring,  and  of  darkness  too,  stained 
every  stone  with  blood.  Our  road  lay  right 
along  the  base  of  one,  with  old  towers  still 
standing,  and  the  ancient  drawbridge  still  rest- 
ing on  its  ancient  foundations.  A  little  farther 
on,  the  whole  breast  of  the  mountain  seemed 
converted  into  a  modem  castle  ;  for  ramparts 
rose  over  every  ridge,  and  turreted  battlements 
stretched  along  every  precipitous  height. 

Nothing  can  be  more  bleak  and  desolate  than 
the  north  coast  of  Wales.  The  rocky  shores, 
treeless,  shrubless  mountains,  and  ruined  cas- 
tles, combine  to  render  the  scene  sombre  and 
gloomy.  At  length  we  reached  Bangor,  from 
whence  I  made  a  visit  to  the  slate  quarries  of 
Mr.  Tennant.  This  gentleman  was  ail  Eng- 
lish Colonel ;  but  being  so  fortunate  as  to  marry 
the  only  daughter  of  the  owner  of  these  exten- 
sive quarries,  he  threw  up  his  profession,  and 
(settled  down  in  Wales.  Becoming  sole  heir  to 
Penrynn  Castle,  on  the  death  of  his  father-in- 
law,  he  improved  it  by  additions  and  renova- 
tions ;  till  how,  with  its  extensive  and  beautiful 
grounds,  it  is  well  worth  a  visit.  The  quarries, 
however,  were  more  interesting  to  me  than  the 
castle,  for  they  are  said  to  be  the  largest  in  the 
world  ;  yielding  the  proprietor  a  nett  income  of 
nearly  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  per  annum. 
Tlie  whole  mountain,  in  which  these  quarries 
are  dug,  is  composed  of  slate.  At  the  base  of 
it  the  miners  commenced,  and  dug,  in  a  semi- 
circular form,  into  its  very  heart.  They  then 
blasted  back  and  up  a  terrace  all  around  the 
space  they  liad  made,  some  thirty  or  forty  feet 
from  the  bottom.  About  the  same  distance 
above  this  terrace,  they  ran  anotlicr  around. 


until  they  terraced  the  mountain  in  the  form  of 
an  amphitheatre,  to  the  very  top.  Around  each 
terrace  runs  a  railroad,  to  carry  out  the  slate  ; 
while  small  stone  huts  are  placed  here  and 
there,  to  shelter  the  workmen  when  a  blast 
occurs  near  them.  These  terraces  are  filled 
with  workmen,  who  look,  from  below,  like  so 
many  ants  crawling  over  the  rocks.  Taking 
one  of  these  as  a  guide,  I  rambled  over  the 
quarries,  in  a  more  excited  state  than  one 
usually  views  so  plain  and  practical  an  object ; 
for  the  blasts,  that  occur  every  few  moments, 
keep  the  mountain  in  an  uproar.  The  amphi- 
theatre is  so  far  across,  that  a  person  need  not 
fear  a  blast  from  the  opposite  side ;  but  one 
from  the  terrace  he  is  on,  or  from  the  one 
above  or  below  him,  is  always  more  or  less 
dangerous.  To  prevent  accidents,  just  before 
a  blast  takes  place,  the  man  who  is  to  fire  it 
steps  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  halloos, 
"  he  hoo  /"  at  which  all  in  the  neighborlioodrun 
for  the  stone  cabins,  like  prairie  dogs  for  their 
holes.  Again  and  again  was  I  compelled  to 
dodge  into  one  of  these  coverts  ;  when,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  there  would  follow  a  heavy 
explosion;  and  the  next  moment  the  loose 
stones  would  be  rattling  like  hail  on  the  roof 
above  me.  Several  times  I  measured,  with  con- 
siderable interest,  the  thickness  of  the  covering 
above  me,  and  calculated  how  heavy  a  rock  it 
would  require  to  crush  through  it.  When  out 
on  the  open  terrace,  the  constant  reports,  like 
the  rapid  discharge  of  cannon  in  various  parts 
of  the  mountain,  keep  one  constantly  on  the 
look-out.  The  depot  of  the  finished  slates  is  also 
a  great  curiosity.  They  are  piletl  in  huge  rows, 
according  to  their  size  and  value  :  tliey  are  ' 
named  Dukes,  Marquesses,  Counts,  &c.,  to  de- 
signate their  respcctivf  worth.  AH  sorts  of 
ornaments  are  made  'jy  the  workmen  in  tlieir 
leisure  momenta,  which  are  sold  to  travelers ; 
several  of  which  I  brought  away  with  me.  It 
was  a  bright  day  when  I  visited  the  quarries ; 


THE  WAYFARING  l4ABORE% 


197 


impunity.  All  hail  to  our  just  king,  who  has 
atoned  for  his  crime,  and  sliown  us,  by  his  ex- 
ample, what  reverence  we  all  owe  to  the  majes- 
ty of  law." 

So  spoke  Don  Henriquez ;  and  he  was  an- 
swered with  shouts  that  rent  the  air — "  Long 
live  our  righteous  king,  Don  Pedro  the  Just !" 
The  shouts  swelled  into  deafening  acclama- 
tions, till  the  very  earth  beneath  the  vast  city 
trembled  with  the  sound. 

All  this  time  Don  Pedro  sat  motionless,  his 
pale  face  shaded  by  his  hand.  When  silence 
was  restored,  he  looked  up,  and  beckoned  the 
chief  judge  to  come  near  him.  Don  Henriquez 
obeyed  ;  and  the  chamberlain  followed,  with  the 
purple  mantle,  which  he  offered,  kneeling,  to 
the  king. 

Don  Pedro  rose,  and  embraced  Don  Henri- 
quez. "  Receive  my  thanks,"  he  said,  "  noble 
and  faithful  servant  of  thy  sovereign.  If  I  am 
praised  that  I  submitted  to  the  laws,  what 
honor  is  due  to  thee,  who  hast  had  courage  to 
uphold  the  righteous  cause  against  a  king 
whom  men  call  the  Cruel  ?  I  bid  thee  hail,  just 
judge ;  and  wear  this  purple  mantle  in  thy  offi- 
cial duties,  in  remembrance  of  what  has  passed 
this  day." 

Thus  speaking,  Don  Pedro  himself  flung  the 
mantle  over  the  shoulders  of  the  chief  judge. 
The  other  judges  were  also  rewarded  ;  and  the 
executioner  received  rich  gifts,  and  was  elevat- 
ed to  the  rank  of  a  noble.  The  beheaded  image 
was  buried,  by  the  king's  order,  in  front  of  the 


altar  in  the  royal  chapel ;  while  the  head  was 
carved  in  stone  on  the  wall  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  in  which  the  two-fold  murder  had  taken 
place.  Some  aver  that  it  may  be  seen  to  this 
day. 

The  foregoing  story  is  taken,  in  every  par- 
ticular, from  the  life  of  Don  Pedro,  and  may,  I 
suppose,  be  relied  on  as  a  piece  of  genuine  his- 
tory. It  is  recorded  of  that  monarch  of  Castile, 
that  he  had  not  long  filled  the  throne  of  his 
illustrious  ancestors,  before  his  people  discov- 
ered that  he  deserved  not  so  much  the  title  of 
the  Cruel,  as  that  of  the  Just,  or  the  Inexora- 
ble. He  had  violent  passions,  it  is  true  ;  and 
woe  to  those  who  crossed  him  in  his  moods  of 
anger !  but  when  calm,  he  showed  a  strict 
sense  of  justice.  An  anecdote  related  of  him, 
may  illustrate  this  quality  : — 

A  young  priest,  who  was  both  vain  and  pas- 
sionate, in  a  fit  of  rage,  for  some  trifling  cause, 
slew  a  poor  shoemaker.  The  king  would  have 
given  up  the  criminal  to  the  secular  courts  ;  but 
the  clergy  interfered,  and  by  their  influence 
over  the  superstitious  people,  prevented  this, 
punishing  the  young  priest  only  by  suspension 
from  the  sacred  office  for  one  year.  The  son 
of  the  murdered  shoemaker,  indignant  at  this 
lenient  sentence,  not  long  after  assassinated  the 
priest.  The  clergy  demanded  of  the  king  that 
the  assassin  should  suffer  death. 

"  Nay,"  replied  Don  Pedro  ;  "  I  follow  your 
example,  and  condemn  him  to  make  no  shoes 
for  a  year." 


BY    REV.     C.    H.     A.     BULKLEY. 


Noble  is  he  who  treads  the  paths  of  earth, 
Poor  and  unknown,  to  gain  his  daily  bread, 
Or  delves  with  spade  and  plough  its  turfy  bed. 

I  love  the  man  !  his  life  is  better  worth 

The  love  of  all,  his  soul  of  nobler  birth. 

Than  his  who,  reckless  of  the  toils  and  tears 

Of  poverty,  will  pass  luxurious  years. 

Feasting  on  fruits  that  humble  effort  yields. 

Plod  on,  lone  traveller,  bear  upon  thy  back 

A  weight  of  labors  with  thy  scanty  pack  ; 

Traverse  with  lightsome  step  the  open  fields ; 

Thy  toil  is  honor,  let  thy  heart  be  free 

Who  does  not  know  that  labor  influence  wields  ? 

I  leave  the  rich  and  turn  my  love  to  thee  ! 


198 


RAMBLES    IN    WALES. 


AMIBILIiS    Um    WA3LIiS 


BY    THE     EDITOR. 


PENRYNN   QUARRIES— HOMEWARD   BOUND— SCOTCH   BOY— STORM   AT    SEA— HOME. 


The  north  coast  of  Wales  is  studded  with  old 
castles — some  of  wliich  are  in  ruins,  and  others 
in  a  good  state  of  preservation.  Many  a  fierce 
struggle  and  wild  tale  they  could  tell,  could  they 
but  reveal  their  history.  Cromwell's  army  has 
thundered  against  their  walls,  and  England's 
chivalry  dashed  over  their  battlements;  and 
deeds  of  daring,  and  of  darkness  too,  stained 
every  stone  with  blood.  Our  road  lay  right 
along  the  base  of  one,  with  old  towers  still 
standing,  and  the  ancient  drawbridge  still  rest- 
ing on  its  ancient  foundations.  A  little  farther 
on,  the  whole  breast  of  the  mountain  seemed 
converted  into  a  modem  castle  ;  for  ramparts 
rose  over  every  ridge,  and  turreted  battlements 
stretched  along  every  precipitous  height. 

Nothing  can  be  more  bleak  and  desolate  than 
the  north  coast  of  Wales.  The  rocky  shores, 
treeless,  shrubless  mountains,  and  ruined  cas- 
tles, combine  to  render  the  scene  sombre  and 
gloomy.  At  length  we  reached  Bangor,  from 
whence  I  made  a  visit  to  the  slate  quarries  of 
Mr.  Tennant.  This  gentleman  was  art  Eng- 
lish Colonel ;  but  being  so  fortunate  as  to  marry 
the  only  daughter  of  the  owner  of  these  exten- 
sive quarries,  he  threw  up  his  profession,  and 
iscttled  down  in  Wales.  Becoming  sole  heir  to 
Penrynn  Castle,  on  the  death  of  his  father-in- 
law,  he  improved  it  by  additions  and  renova- 
tions ;  till  how,  with  its  extensive  and  beautiful 
grounds,  it  is  well  worth  a  visit.  The  quarries, 
however,  were  more  interesting  to  me  than  the 
castle,  for  they  are  said  to  be  the  largest  in  the 
world  ;  yielding  the  proprietor  a  nett  income  of 
nearly  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  per  annum. 
Tlie  whole  mountain,  in  which  these  quarries 
are  dug,  is  composed  of  slate.  At  the  base  of 
it  the  miners  commenced,  and  dug,  in  a  semi- 
circular form,  into  its  very  heart.  They  then 
bjasted  back  and  up  a  terrace  all  around  the 
space  they  had  made,  some  thirty  or  forty  feet 
from  the  bottom.  About  the  same  distance 
above  tljis  terrace,  they  ran  another  around, 


until  they  terraced  the  mountain  in  the  form  of 
an  amphitheatre,  to  the  very  top.  Around  each 
terrace  runs  a  railroad,  to  carry  out  the  slate  ; 
while  small  stone  huts  are  placed  here  and 
there,  to  shelter  the  workmen  when  a  blast 
occurs  near  them.  These  terraces  are  filled 
with  workmen,  who  look,  from  below,  like  so 
many  ants  crawling  over  the  rocks.  Taking 
one  of  these  as  a  guide,  I  rambled  over  the 
quarries,  in  a  more  excited  state  than  one 
usually  views  so  plain  and  practical  an  object ; 
for  the  blasts,  that  occur  every  few  moments, 
keep  the  mountain  in  an  uproar.  The  amphi- 
theatre is  so  far  across,  that  a  person  need  not 
fear  a  blast  from  the  opposite  side ;  but  one 
from  the  terrace  he  is  on,  or  from  the  one 
above  or  below  him,  is  always  more  or  less 
dangerous.  To  prevent  accidents,  just  before 
a  blast  takes  place,  the  man  who  is  to  fire  it 
steps  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  halloos, 
"  he  hoo  /"  at  which  all  in  the  neighborhood  run 
for  the  stone  cabins,  like  prairie  dogs  for  their 
holes.  Again  and  again  was  I  compelled  to 
dodge  into  one  of  these  coverts  ;  when,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  there  would  follow  a  heavy 
explosion;  and  the  next  moment  the  loose 
stones  would  be  rattling  like  hail  on  tlie  roof 
above  me.  Several  times  I  measured,  with  con- 
siderable interest,  the  thickness  of  tlie  covering 
above  me,  and  calculated  how  heavy  a  rock  it 
would  require  to  crush  through  it.  When  out 
on  the  open  terrace,  the  constant  reports,  like 
the  rapid  discharge  of  cannon  in  various  parts 
of  the  mountain,  keep  one  constantly  on  the 
look-out.  The  depot  of  the  finished  slates  is  also 
a  great  curiosity.  They  are  piled  in  huge  rows, 
according  to  their  size  and  value  :  they  are  ' 
named  Dukes,  Marquesses,  Counts,  &,c.,  to  de- 
signate their  respcctivr  worth.  All  sorts  of 
ornaments  are  made  'jy  the  workmen  in  tlieir 
leisure  momenta,  which  are  sold  to  travelers ; 
several  of  which  I  brought  away  with  me.  It 
was  a  bright  day  when  I  visited  the  quarries ; 


RAMBLES    IN     VVAl^S. 


199 


and,  as  I  turned  away,  I  paused,  and  looked 
back  on  tliat  excavated  mountain.  It  was  a 
curi  )us  spectacle — those  terraces,  rising  one 
above  another,  sprinkled  all  over  with  human 
beings,  like  mere  spots  on  the  spire  of  a  church. 

From  Bangor  I  went  to  Caernarvon,  to  visit 
tlie  ruined  castle  there,  so  famous  in  the 
ancient  history  of  England.  I  clambered  up  its 
spiral  staircase — looked  out  of  its  narrow  win- 
dows— plucked  the  ivy  from  its  massive  and 
immensely  thick  walls,  and  then  went  to  a 
neighboring  eminence  to  have  the  whole  in  one 
coup  d'ceil.  It  is  an  impressive  ruin,  indepen- 
dent of  the  associations  connected  with  it.  It 
was  my  design  to  cross  the  island  of  Anglesea 
and  take  steamboat  for  Dublin,  where  I  expect- 
ed to  meet  my  friend,  who  left  me  at  Liverpool ; 
but  that  afternoon  a  storm  set  in  which  fright- 
ened me  back.  I  had  had  some  experience  in 
the  British  channels,  and  concluded  I  had 
rather  not  see  Dublin  than  again  be  made  as 
deadly  sick  as  I  had  been.  I  went  back  to 
Bangor ;  roamed  over  the  island  of  Anglesea  ; 
saw  the  stone  block,  once  a  sacrifice  stone  of 
the  ancient  Druids  ;  stood  on  the  Menai  bridge, 
next  to  that  of  Frybourg,  the  longest  suspension 
bridge  in  the  world  ;  And  finally  set  sail  for  Liv- 
erpool. Waiting  here  two  weelis,  till  I  could 
get  a  state-room  to  myself,  I  at  last  embarked 
on  board  the  packet  England,  and  dropped  down 
the  channel.  Rounding  the  southern  coast  of 
Ireland  we  stood  out  to  sea,  and  soon  the  last 
vestige  of  land  disappeared  behind  the  waters ; 
and,  homeward  bound,  we  were  on  the  wide 
Atlantic. 

There  v/as  an  incident  occurred  on  leaving 
port  which  interested  me  exceedingly.  With 
the  departure  of  almost  every  vessel,  some  poor 
wretches,  without  the  means  to  pay  their  pas- 
sage, secrete  themselves  aboard  till  fairly  out 
to  sea,  when  they  creep  forth  from  their  hiding- 
places.  The  captain  cannot  put  back  for  them, 
and  he  cannot  see  them  starve  on  board  his 
sliip ;  and  so  they  get  a  free  passage  to  this 
land,  where  every  man  can  find  work.  So 
common  has  this  become,  that  an  officer  is 
always  hired  to  ransack  the  vessel  while  she 
is  being  towed  out  of  the  harbor.  Several 
were  found  hid  away  in  ours,  whom  I  saw 
shoved"  over  into  the  "  tug,"  as  the  tow-boat 
is  called,  without  the  least  feeling  of  commis- 
eration. They  were  such  hard,  depraved  look- 
ing cases,  that  I  thought  it  no  loss  to  have  them 
kept  back  from  our  shores.  But  at  length  tlie 
officer  drew  forth  a  Scotch  lad  about  seventeen 


years  of  age,  who  seemed  unlike  his  compan- 
ions. Dirty  and  ragged  enough  he  indeed  was, 
but  a  certain  honest  expression  in  his  face, 
which  was  covered  with  tears,  interested  me  in 
him  immediately.  I  stopped  the  officer  and 
asked  the  boy  his  name.  "  Robert  S.,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Where  are  you  from  ?"  "  Greenock. 
I  am  a  baker  by  trade,  but  my  master  has  broke, 
and  I  have  come  to  Liverpool  to  get  work." 
"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  America  ?"  said  I. 
"  To  get  work,"  he  replied  in  his  strong  Scotch 
accent.  He  seemed  to  have  but  one  idea,  and 
that  was  tcork!  The  object  of  his  ambition, 
the  end  of  his  wishes,  was  the  privilege  of 
working.  He  had  wandered  around  Liverpool 
in  vain ;  slept  on  the  docks,  and  lived  on  the 
refuse  crumbs  he  could  pick  up  ;  and  as  a  last 
resort  determined,  all  alone,  to  cross  the  Atlan- 
tic to  a  land  where  man  is  allowed  the  boon  of 
working  for  his  daily  bread.  I  could  not  let 
him  go  ashore,  and  told  the  captain  that  I 
would  see  that  liis  passage  was  paid.  The 
passengers  joined  with  me,  and  I  told  him  he 
need  not  be  alarmed,  he  should  go  to  America. 
I  was  struck  with  his  reply :  said  he  in  a 
manly  tone,  "  I  don't  know  how  I  can  pay 
you,  sir,  but  I  will  work  for  you."  I  gave  him 
clothes,  and  told  him  to  wash  himself  up  and 
be  cheerful,  and  I  would  take  care  of  him.  In 
a  short  time  he  became  deadly  sick,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  week  he  was  so  emaciated  and  feeble 
I  feared  he  would  die.  I  said  to  him  one  day, 
"  Robert,  are  you  not  very  sorry  now  you  start- 
ed for  America  ?"  "  No,  sir !"  he  replied,  "  if 
I  can  get  work  there."  "  Merciful  God !"  I 
mentally  exclaimed,  "  has  hunger  so  gnawed  at 
this  poor  fellow's  vitals,  and  starvation  stared 
him  so  often  in  the  face,  that  he  can  think  of 
no  joy  like  that  of  being  permitted  to  work  !" 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away,  wearisome 
and  lonely,  until  at  length,  as  we  approached 
the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  a  heavy  storm 
overtook  us.  It  blew  for  two  days,  and  the 
third  night  the  sea  was  rolling  tremendously. 
The  good  ship  labored  over  the  mountainous 
billows,  while  every  timber,  and  plank,  and 
door,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  endowed 
with  a  voice,  and  screeched,  and  screamed, 
and  groaned,  and  complained,  till  the  tumult 
without  was  almost  drowned  by  the  uproar 
within.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  the 
timbers  could  hold  together  for  an  hour,  so 
violently  did  the  vessel  work.  I  could  not 
keep  in  my  berth,  and  ropes  were  strung  along 
the  deck  to  enable  the  sailors  to  cross  from  one 


200 


RAJIBLES    IN    WALES. 


side  to  another.  I  crawled  to  the  cabin  door, 
and  holding  on  with  both  hands,  gazed  out  with 
strange  feelings  upon  the  wild  and  ruinous 
waste  of  waters.  We  had  a  host  of  steerage 
passengers  aboard,  whom  the  captain  was  com- 
pelled to  drive  below,  and  fasten  down  the 
hatches  over  them.  The  sea  was  breaking 
madly  over  the  shrinking,  shivering  ship,  as  if 
determined  to  crush  it  down  ;  and  at  every 
shock  of  the  billows,  as  they  fell  in  thunder 
on  the  deck,  the  poor  wretches  below  thought 
themselves  going  to  the  bottom,  and  kept  up  a 
constant  wailing,  screaming  and  praying,  at 
once  pitiful  and  ludicrous.  Still  I  could  not 
blame  them,  for  to  one  unaccustomed  to  the 
sea  the  rush  and  roll  of  waves  on  the  trembling 
pianks  overhead  are  anything  but  pleasant 
sounds.  One  moment,  as  we  ascended  a  billow, 
the  jib-boom  of  our  vessel  seemed  to  pierce 
mid-heaven — the  next  moment,  in  her  mad  and 
downward  plunge,  it  would  disappear  in  the 
sea,  and  tons  of  water  come  sweeping  with  a 
crash  over  our  decks.  Once  the  second  mate, 
who  was  forward,  was  caught  by  one  of  these 
furious  seas  and  borne  backward  the  whole 
length  of  the  deck,  against  the  after-cabin.  As 
the  ship  pitched  again  he  was  carried  forward, 
and  the  second  time  borne  backward,  before  he 
could  feel  the  deck,  although  the  water  was 
running  in  a  perfect  torrent  from  the  scuppers 
the  while.  Oh  !  it  was  a  fearful  night — the 
clouds  swept  in  angry  masses  athwart  the 
heavens,  and  all  around  was  tjie  mountainous 
deep  over  which  our  groaning  vessel  strained 
with  desperate  eiForts  and  most  piteous  com- 
plaints. I  turned  in,  sick  of  the  sea,  but  I 
could  not  sleep,  for  one  moment  my  feet  would 
be  pointing  to  the  zenith,  and  the  next  moment 
my  head,  and  immediately  after,  head,  body,  and 
legs,  would  be  lying  in  a  confused  heap  on  the 
state-room  floor.  As  a  last  resort,  I  stretched 
myself  on  the  cabin  sofa,  which  was  bolted  to 
the  floor,  and  bade  the  steward  lash  me  to  it 
with  a  rope ;  and  strange  to  say,  in  this  posi- 
tion I  dropped  asleep  and  slept  till  morning.  It 
was  the  soundest  night's  rest  I  ever  had  at  sea. 
But  it  is  startling  to  be  waked  out  of  sleep  by 
the  creaking  of  timbers  and  roar  of  waves ;  and 
tbe  spirits  feel  a  sudden  reaction  that  is  painful. 
I  staggered  on  deck,  and  such  a  sight  I  never 
beheld  before.  The  storm  had  broken,  and  the 
fragmentary  clouds  were  flying  like  lightning 


over  the  sky,  while  the  sea,  as  for  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  was  one  vast  expanse  of  heaving, 
tumbling  mountains — their  bases  a  bright  pea- 
green,  and  their  ridges  white  as  snow.  Over 
and  around  these  our  good  ship  floundered  like 
a  mere  toy.  On  our  right,  and  perhaps  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  distant,  (though  it  seemed 
scarcely  three  rods,)  lay  a  ship  riding  out  the 
storm.  When  we  went  down  and  she  went  up, 
I  could  see  the  copper  on  her  bottom  ;  and  when 
we  both  went  down  together,  the  tops  of  her 
tallest  masts  disappeared  as  though  she  had 
been  suddenly  ingulfed  in  the  ocean.  The 
sun  at  length  emerged  from  a  cloud  and  lighted 
up  with  strange  brilliancy  this  strange  scene. 
It  was  a  sublime  spectacle,  and  I  acknowledged 
it  to  be  so,  but  added  mentally,  as  I  clung  to  a 
belaying  pin  and  braced  against  the  bulwarks 
to  keep  ray  legs,  that  I  thought  it  would  appear 
much  belter  from  shore. 

Days  and  nights  passed  away,  until  at  length 
a  bird  came  and  lighted  on  our  rigging,  and  then 
I  knew  we  were  near  my  father-land.  I  could 
have  kissed  it.  The  last  night  came  on  with  rain 
and  storm,  and  we  flew  on  before  the  gale  with 
our  white  wings  spread,  thankful  that  it  bore  us 
homeward.  At  noon  next  day  the  clouds  broke 
away,  and  soon  after  we  took  on  board  a  pilot. 
The  sun  went  down  in  beauty,  and  the  moon 
sailed  up  the  golden  sky,  and  the  stars  came 
out  and  smiled  on  the  sea,  and  all  was  lovely 
and  entrancing ;  but  soon  other  lights  flashed 
over  the  waters  that  far  outshone  both  moon 
and  stars — the  lights  from  Sandy  Hook.  My 
heart  leaped  up  in  my  throat  at  the  sight,  and 
an  involuntary  burst  of  joy  escaped  my  lips. 
No  bay  ever  looked  so  sweet  as  New-York  bay 
the  next  morning ;  and  when  my  feet  pressed 
my  native  land,  I  loved  her  better  than  ever. 

*  ***** 

I  will  only  add  that  my  protege,  the  Scotch 
boy,  was  taken  care  of,  and  proved  worthy  of 
the  interest  I  had  taken  In  him.  He  is  now  on 
the  fiiir  road  to  wealth  and  prosperity. 

The  good  packet  England,  a  few  months 
after,  left  Liverpool  for  New.- York,  and  was 
never  heard  of  more.  A  better  officer  than  her 
captain  never  trod  a  deck,  and  her  first  mate 
was  also  a  fine  man.  He  had  been  lately  mar- 
ried, and  went  to  sea  because  it  was  his  only 
means  of  livelihood.  Alas  !  the  billows  now 
roll  over  them  and  their  gallant  ship  together 


Q 


9 
d 
9 


y 


THE  MEDICAL  STUDENT. 


201 


IPHIg  MlgHDIKDAIL   Sf  nUDIgHIP. 


BY    W.     J.    PRIME,    M.D. 


In  looking  over  my  notes  to  select  some  one 
case  out  of  the  many  I  have  collected,  which 
would  interest  the  readers  of  the  series  I  am 
now  writing,  as  I  turned  leaf  after  leaf,  I  found 
between  two  an  open  letter :  it  instantly  brought 
to  my  mind  the  incidents  connected  with,  and 
subsequent  to,  its  reception,  with  all  the  vivid- 
ness of  scenes  which  took  place  only  yester- 
day. I  could  probably  write  them  out  as  they 
occurred,  although  many  years  have  passed 
since,  and  the  subject  of  them  has  long  ago 
passed  away.  But  I  prefer  to  confine  myself 
to  the  history  recorded  at  the  time,  both  for 
the  sake  of  brevity,  and  also  to  take  from  it  the 
air  of  fiction,  which  is  apt  to  hang  about  the 
striking  incidents  of  any  one  life,  when  collect- 
ed and  written.  So  much  truth  is  there  in  the 
latter  reason,  that  we  often  have  it  said  of  us 
that  our  scenes  and  descriptions  are  over- 
wrought, simply  because  they  are  gathered 
into  one  body,  and  meet  the  eye  in  hurried  suc- 
cession ;  whereas,  had  they  been  seen  only  as 
they  happened,  at  inter\-als  of  more  or  less 
length,  their  force  would  have  been  very  much 
diminished.  There  are  passages  in  the  life  of 
every  one,  possessing  the  highest  and  most  ex- 
citing interest  of  romance ;  which,  at  the  same 
time,  if  written  out,  would  not  be  recognized  by 
him  who  had  been  the  subject  of  them,  because 
tliey  are  grouped  together  instead  of  at  the  dis- 
tant periods  of  time  at  which  they  transpired. 
It  was  because  I  appreciated  this  truth,  that  I 
began,  in  the  early  part  of  my  professional  life, 
to  record,  for  my  own  entertainment,  the  scenes 
and  incidents  which  I  am  now  giving  to  my 
readers. 

Before  proceeding  to  relate  the  incidents  of 
the  case,  I  must  give  a  brief  history  of  the 
young  man  who  is  the  subject  of  it. 

In  the  early  life  of  George  W s  there 


was  nothing  remarkable.  At  school  he  was 
not  more  industrious,  nor  more  of  a  scholar, 
than  most  of  his  fellows ;  his  only  pre-eminence 
was  in  his  physical  powers,  which  were  rapidly 
developed,  and  he  excelled  in  all  the  sports 
and  pastimes  of  his  age.  But  when  he  had 
completed  his  preparatory  studies,  and  had 
entered  college,  his  mind  seemed  to  acquire  a 
sudden  vigor;  and  he  devoted  himself,  with 
wonderful  zeal  and  untiring  diligence,  to  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge.  His  exercise  of  body 
was  entirely  neglected  ;  and  day  and  night  he 
was  found  poring  over  his  books,  or  walking 
his  room  in  deep  meditation.  At  first  there 
was  no  particular  aim  in  his  studies — that  is. 
they  were  not  confined  more  to  one  branch  ot 
science  than  to  another.  It  was  knowledge 
that  he  sought — knowledge  for  itself  alone; 
and  if  the  mission  of  Truth  ever  had  a  faithful 
and  unwearied  votar}'  upon  earth,  he  was  found 

in  George  W s.     It  was  wonderful  with 

what  ease  and  facility  he  acquired  his  lessons : 
they  seemed  but  the  sport  of  his  powerful  intel- 
lect— toys,  that  his  mind  played  with,  as  a  child 
with  the  trifles  that  amuse  him;  and  at  a 
glance  he  made  the  ideas  of  his  authors  as  fa- 
miliar as  if  they  had  originated  in  his  own 
mind.  The  powers  of  his  mind  seemed  to  in- 
crease more  rapidly  than  he  advanced  in  his 
studies.  It  seemed  as  if  there  \i-as  a  new  force 
within,  a  sort  of  innate  vigor  springing  daily 
into  more  full  activity,  and  reaching  forth  con- 
tinually for  aliment  upon  which  to  feed  its 
accumulating  strength. 

It  was  necessary  that  this  power  should  have 
some  aim,  some  director  to  point  it  to  some  par- 
ticular destination,  lest  in  roaming  over  the  wide 
fields  of  science  it  siiould  become  bewildered 
and  lost.  His  friends  proposed  numerous  plans, 
but  he  rejected  them  all,  because  he  could  not 


202 


THE  MEDICAL  STUDENT. 


choose.  All  knowledge  was  the  same  to  him. 
It  was  for  itself  he  sought  it ;  not  for  its  xitili- 
ty — not  for  the  power  it  gave  him  over  others, 
nor  for  the  sake  of  ambition  :  it  was  selfish,  if 
there  was  any  active  motive  in  his  heart,  and 
continued  so  to  the  end. 

It  was  during  the  last  term  of  his  college  life 
that  his  mind  became  fixed  upon  the  study 
which  occupied  him  till  near  the  end  of  his  life. 
This  was  Chemistry.  Some  trifling  phenome- 
non first  arrested  his  attention  ;  and  its  investi- 
gation led  him  on  from  one  to  another.  The 
immense  field  comprised  in  this  science  was 
opened  before  him ;  his  room  became  a  perfect 
laboratory;  and  his  eagerness  and  zeal  were 
not  surpassed  by  the  alchemists  from  whom  the 
science  had  its  origin.  A  world  of  new  beauty 
and  order  was  exposed  to  his  view,  and  he 
trod  its  paths  with  untiring  delight. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  his  social  powers. 
They  were  of  the  highest  order.  Once  draw 
him  away  from  his  studies,  and  he  became  one 
of  the  most  entertaining  of  companions.  He 
had  a  bold  and  fine  imagination,  coupled  with  a 
rare  originality  of  conception,  which  gave  a 
wonderful  charm  to  his  conversation.  With 
this  character,  it  was  strange  that  he  did  not 
become  visionary  in  his  early  life  ;  or  that,  in 
the  scientific  studies  which  occupied  him  at  a 
later  period,  he  did  not  run  into  the  wild  dreams 
of  the  alchemists,  in  their  search  for  the  philos- 
opher's stone.     But  he  did  not. 

Of  his  personal  appearance  I  need  say  little. 
His  form  was  singularly  erect;  his  forehead 
high  and  bold  ;  his  face  pale  ;  his  lips  always 
forcibly  compressed,  and  his  eye  black,  and  ex- 
ceedingly bright,  which  was  probably  in  part 
the  elFect  of  its  contrast  with  his  very  pale 
complexion.  The  general  expression  of  his 
face  was  calm  and  contemplative ;  but  when 
excited  by  argument  or  conversation,  it  awoke 
with  great  animation,  and  every  feature  seemed 
to  speak.  Such  is  a  brief  description  of  the 
character  and  person  of  the  subject  of  the  fol- 
lowing sketch, ' 

His  life,  till  he  reached  the  age  of  thirty-one 
years,  was  one  of  intense  study.  At  this  time 
I  lost  sight  of  him ;  and  when  I  next  saw  him 
he  was  awfully  changed :  he  was  a  drunkard  ! 
Sunk  and  wallowing  in  the  very  depths  of  this 
loathsome  vice,  he  had  lost  all  the  nobility  of 
his  personal  beauty  ;  and  his  mind  had  suffered, 
if  possible,  in  a  worse  degree.  He  had  re- 
turned to  my  neighborhood,  the  scene  of  his 
early  life,  as  if  to  exhibit  to  those  who  had  Uien 


known liim,  the  fearful  eft'ccts  of  intcmpciam-o. 
How  he  had  fallen  into  this  habit  I  never 
learned.  The  fact  that  he  had  not  been  a  man 
of  great  fondness  for  company  seemed  to  con- 
tradict the  impression  tiiat  he  had  acquired  it 
by  associating  with  those  who  would  lead  liiin 
into  it.  And  indeed,  at  this  lime,  lie  was  not  a 
social  drinker.  It  was  in  solitude  that  he  gave 
himself  up  to  it ;  and  alone,  in  his  own  room, 
he  would  drink  himself  into  insensibility.  But 
I  pass  on  to  the  end.  I  wish  I  could  stop  here, 
or  had  not  begun,  for  I  loved  him  as  my  own 
brother,  and  labored  hard  to  restore  him  to 
his  reason  ;  and  I  fain  would  cover  up  the  errors 
of  one  so  dear,  and  the  fall  of  one  so  gifted. 

I  think  it  was  in  the  darkest  midnight  I  ever 
knew,  that  I  was  called  out  of  my  bed  to  see  him. 
He  had  been  for  several  days  in  a  constant  state 
of  intoxication,  and  often,  during  this  time, 
wandering  through  the  streets,  in  a  condition 
bordering  on  madness.  I  followed  the  messen- 
ger to  a  miserable  hovel  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
village  ;  where,  in  the  corner  of  a  filthy  room, 
in  a  squalid  and  miserable  apology  for  a  bed,  I 

found  George  W s.     The  following  is  the 

history  of  his  case  as  I  recorded  it  at  the  time. 

March  6. — I  have  just  left  the  bedside  of 
George  W s — a  young  man  of  most  re- 
markable character  in  his  early  life,  but  now  a 
victim  to  intemperance.  How  strange  it  is 
that  so  many  men  of  brilliant  intellects  are 
overcome  by  this  vice.  And  most  of  all  am  I 
surprised  at  this  one,  when  it  seemed  that  there 
was  no  temptation  to  lead  him  into  it.  I  found 
him  lying  upon  a  miserable  bed,  in  a  miserable 
hut,  to  which,  I  was  informed,  he  had  wandered 
in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  and  begged 
that  he  might  be  suffered  to  stay  all  night. 
Upon  obtaining  permission  he  had  thrown  him- 
self upon  the  bed,  and  sunk  at  once  into  a  pro- 
found sleep.  During  the  evening  he  had 
continued  to  sleep  soundly  ;  but  towards  mid- 
night he  had  groaned  much,  as  if  in  pain ;  and 
tlie  inmates  of  the  place,  fearing  that  he  was 
very  sick,  and  might  die  in  their  house,  had 
sent  at  once  for  me.  He  has  a  high  fever,  and 
is  stupid  and  insensible,  and  cannot  be  aroused. 
This  may  be  owing  to  his  excesses  of  yester- 
day ;  and  nothing  can  be  determined  as  to  his 
condition  till  to-morrow,  but  1  fear  the  worst. 
How  he  is  changed  from  what  he  was  a  few 
years  since  !  Instead  of  his  erect  and  manly 
form,  he  is  now  bowed  and  bloated  ;  and  his 
face,  formerly  pale  and  thin,  is  puffed  up,  and 
flushed  with  the  brand  of  the  drunkard.    Better 


THE  MEDICAL  STUDENT. 


203 


now  that  he  should  die  as  he  is,  than  live  longer 
such  a  life  of  wretchedness  and  shame. 

Although  I  w^as  with  him  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  night,  I  called  at  an  early  hour  this 
morning,  but  he  had  not  yet  waked  from  his 
lethargic  sleep.  I  sat  by  him  more  than  an 
hour,  thinking,  with  intense  bitterness  of  heart, 
on  the  humiliating  condition  of  my  patient.  At 
that  time  he  suddenly  woke ;  and  turning  his 
burning  and  bloodshot  eyes  upon  me,  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Drink  ! — drink  ! — give  me  drink.  I  am 
burning — consuming.  Oh  !  this  fire — this  con- 
suming fire !  Give  me  drink,  I  say.  Not 
water,"  he  cried,  as  a  glass  of  it  was  held  to 
his  lips  ;  "  no  water  for  me  !  Give  me  strong 
drink — ^brandy,  sir,  brandy — quick,  or  I  shall 
die." 

He  had  not  seemed  to  recognize  me  before 
this,  but 'as  I  now  spoke  to  him,  and  told  him  it 
was  not  proper  for  him  to  have  brandy  in  the 
condition  in  which  he  then  was,  he  looked  me 
steadily  in  the  face  for  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"  Doctor,  are  you  here  ?  But  you  can  do 
nothing  for  me.  I  know  as  well  as  you  that  it 
is  wrong,  but  I  must  have  brandy." 

"  It  will  only  increase  5'our  pain,  George," 
said  I. 

"  Let  it  kill  me  then,"  he  said,  "  but  I  must 
have  it.  I  cannot  resist ;  I  must  have  it  if  I 
die,  and  I  shall  die  v/ithout  it.  Oh,  Doctor ! 
give  it  to  me,  for  1  am  consuming." 

It  was  with  much  difficulty  I  could  induce 
him  to  take  a  draught  of  cold  water,  which 
produced  a  temporary  relief  of  his  suffering.  I 
was  then  able  to  make  such  inquiries  of  him 
as  to  form  some  opinion  of  his  condition. 
There  is  every  evidence  of  a  high  state  of 
inflammation  of  his  stomach,  perhaps  in  some 
degree  the  same  as  that  which  exists  in  that 
organ  in  every  drunkard,  but  in  this  case  in- 
finitely more  active.  Here  is  constant  and 
intense  pain,  which  he  describes  as  a  consum- 
ing fire,  under  which  he  writlies  in  agony,  only 
relieved  by  an  occasional  swallow  of  water  or 
ice.  This  he  takes  with  loathing,  begging  at 
the  same  time  most  piteously  for  strong  drink. 
Afler  having  bled  him  freely  from  the  arm,  and 
made  such  applications  and  prescriptions  as 
his  case  required,  I  left  him  to  try  and  procure 
for  him  more  comfortable  accommodations.  It 
was  with  considerable  difficulty  that  I  at  length 
succeeded.  Every  one  was  unwilling  to  open 
the  door  to  such  a  wretch,  till  I  mentioned  my 
.  difficulty  to  our  minister's  wife,  who,  after  con- 


sulting with  her  husband,  provided  a  room  in 
her  house,  and  all  requisite  comforts,  and  he 
has  been  removed  there.  1  have  al.«o  written 
to  his  sister,  who  lives  in  a  town  some  hundred 
miles  distant,  where  George  has  also  been  re- 
siding since  he  left  this  place,  some  years  since. 
Why  is  it  that  the  poor  victim  of  intemperance 
is  so  shut  out  from  the  sympathies  of  his  fel- 
lows ?  Surely  none  need  more  the  friendly 
hand  and  counsel  of  the  unenslaved — none 
surely  deser\'e  it  more.  Yet  they  are  thrust 
out  and  despised  as  an  unclean  thing,  and  left 
to  be  the  laughing-stock  of  every  inhuman 
heart 

ItJi. — My  patient  seems  better  this  morning, 
or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  easier,  yet  his 
demand  is  incessantly  for  brandy.  I  urged 
him  to  resist  the  desire,  but  he  answered  me — 

"  I  cannot.  I  am  consumed  with  the  appe- 
tite. It  does  -not  seem  to  be  the  mere  sense 
which  requires  it,  and  if  it  were  I  think  I  could 
easily  combat  the  wish.  It  is  the  mind,  or  as 
your  physiologists  would  say,  the  brain.  I  feel 
a  constant  and  uncontrollable  desire  for  it,  and 
I  could  not  resist  if  I  would.  I  have  never 
recovered  from  a  fit  of  drunkenners — for  I  know 
I  am  a  drunkard — without  feeling  intense  shame, 
and  wishing  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that 
I  could  deny  myself  and  become  free.  And  if 
it  were  the  mere  sensual  appetite  that  demand- 
ed the  stimulus,  I  know  I  could  resist  it.  But 
my  mind  craves  it — my  whole  being  seems  to 
long  for  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  why.  It  is  in- 
explicable even  to  myself.  I  have  not  been 
an  hour  free  from  the  influence  of  it  in  three 
years." 

Seeing  his  mind  so  rational  on  the  subject,  I 
laid  before  him  every  inducement  to  reform, 
and  used  every  argument  which  my  reason  or 
my  friendship  for  him  could  suggest.  He  heard 
me  wnth  patience,  and  even  at  times  with  evi- 
dent feeling,  for  the  tears  rose  in  his  eyes  and 
he  turned  away  to  hide  them.    But  he  replied : 

"  I  know  and  feel  all  you  say.  Doctor,  is  true. 
But  it  is  nothing  new  to  me.  During  every 
rational  hour  of  my  life  since  I  have  been  a 
drunkard,  I  have  used  to  myself  the  same  reason- 
in  o".  I  carry  about  in  my  bosom  the  same  moni- 
tor I  had  when  I  was  free,  and  it  reproaches  me 
bitterly ;  yet  it  is  only  an  additional  inducement 
for  me  to  drink  deeper  to  drown  its  voice.  No 
— you  can  tell  me  nothing  I  do  not  feel  continu- 
ally, and  yet  I  am  the  unwilling  slave  you  see 
me.  I  hate  and  despise  myself,  and  when  I 
stop  for  a  moment  to  compare  myself  with  what 


204 


THE  MEDICAL  STUDENT. 


I  have  once  been,  I  am  filled  with  confusion 
and  shame.  Under  such  feelings  I  have  made 
the  sternest  resolutions,  that  I  did  not  keep  one 
hour.  Last  night  I  craved  the  drink  to  quench 
the  fire  in  my  stomach.  To-day  I  am  mostly 
free  from  that  bodily  desire  for  it,  if  I  may  call 
it  so,  and  now  I  feel  a  mental  wish,  which  is 
equally  strong  and  irresistible.  I  am  not 
master  of  myself.  I  would  drink  if  I  knew 
that  immediate  death  would  be  the  conse- 
quence." 

I  believe  he  spoke  the  truth.  His  whole 
being  seems  to  be  under  the  influence  of  this 
passion.  His  mind  to-day  is  comparatively 
clear  and  calm,  yet  he  is  restless,  and  his  eye 
wanders  unsteadily  and  anxiously,  as  if  want- 
ing something  to  fix  upon  ;  but  it  is  all  the  effect 
of  his  burning  desire  for  the  stimulus  he  has 
been  accustomed  to.  I  have  firmly  refused  to 
allow  him  anything  of  the  kind,  although  he, 
at  times,  raves  like  a  maniac. 

10th. — For  three  days  past  my  patient  has 
continued  in  much  the  same  condition  as  on 
the  7th,  professing  to  feel  an  intense  anxiety  to 
be  free  from  the  curse  that  hangs  upon  him, 
while  he  has  no  resolution  to  fight  against  it. 
At  times,  he  walks  his  room  rapidly  and  ner- 
vously, and  moans  like  a  sick  child  ;  and  then 
again  he  becomes  almost  furious  in  his  demands 
for  brandy.  It  is  pitiable  to  see  a  man  of  his 
fwwers  of  mind  so  utterly  under  the  dominion 
of  this  loathsome  vice,  while  he  is  perfectly  con- 
scious of  his  whole  degradation.  It  is  singular 
that,  till  this  morning,  he  has  not  questioned  any 
one  as  to  why  ho  is  detained  here  in  his  room, 
for  he  is  well  enough  to  be  abroad.  But  when 
I  entered  his  room,  he  was  walking  the  floor  in 
great  agitation,  and  immediately  stopped,  and 
demanded  of  me  why  he  was  kept  like  a  prisoner 
in  his  cell,  with  a  guard  over  him  ?  I  soon  suc- 
ceeded in  quieting  him,  and  told  him  plainly  my 
reasons ;  and  then  he  wept  like  a  child. 

"  It  is  of  no  use.  Doctor,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"  I  tell  you,  my  dear  sir,  if  I  were  chained  to  a 
rock  for  life,  it  would  not  quench  this  burning 
thirst.  I  would  struggle  against  my  chain  till 
I  broke  it,  or  died  in  the  strife.  You  will  find 
it  so  ;  and  though  now  I  submit,  yet  I  chafe  and 
rage  against  it,  and  the  time  will  come  when, 
in  my  agony — for  it  is  nothing  less  than  agony 
— I  shall  break  away.  It  is  a  desire  that  over- 
couies  shame  and  reason;  mid  sensible  as  I  am 
of  my  ruin,  I  would  choose  death  this  moment 
rather  than  self-denial." 

I  attempted  to  lead    hiui   away   from  his 


thoughts,  by  talking  of  his  former  studies  ; 
and  for  a  time  he  conversed  freely  and  nat- 
urally. He  told  me  all  that  he  had  done 
since  he  had  been  absent,  and  seemed  inter- 
ested in  the  relation.  But  he  soon  became 
restless  and  wandering,  and  it  was  evident  that 
he  could  not  fix  his  mind  for  any  length  of  time 
on  any  subject.  Here  was  the  worst  part  of 
the  ruin,  and  I  can  see  no  hope,  unless  the 
warmer  affections  of  his  heart  may  be  wrought 
upon ;  and  I  wait  anxiously  for  the  arrival  of 
his  sister.  She  is  a  gentle  and  warm-hearted 
girl,  and  he  has  always  been  very  much  at- 
tached to  her. 

Four  o'clock. — All  is  lost !  An  hour  ago,  I 
was  called  in  haste  to  see  him,  and  found  him 
again  raging  with  fever,  and  insensible.  He 
had  made  an  attempt,  about  noon,  to  leave  his 
room,  but  was  persuaded  by  his  attendant,  who 
is  a  firm  but  kind  man,  to  remain.  Me  com- 
menced walking  the  floor  of  his  room  rapidly, 
and  apparently  under  great  excitement,  and 
talking  to  himself. 

"  Fool  that  I  am — cursed  fool — why  am  I 
thus  ?  Why  cannot  1  be  as  other  men  ?  Why 
did  I  not  die  before  it  came  to  this  ?  Why  was 
I  born  into  the  world  ?  I  am  not  a  man.  If  I 
were,  I  could  trample  upon  this  hellish  lust, 
and  crush  it  in  the  mire,  and  rise  up  again  to 
be  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  ought  to  be. 
But  I  cannot.  It  gnaws  at  my  heart,  and  burns 
in  my  brain,  till  the  desire  for  drink  is  greater 
agony  than  the  pain  it  produces.  I  must  have 
it.  Away,  sir ! — stand  out  of  my  way.  I  will 
not  be  kept  here  like  a  chained  wild  beast. 
Give  me  brandy,  I  say,  or  let  me  pass !" 

He  rushed  for  the  door,  and  being  repulsed 
by  his  attendant,  he  seized  him  by  the  throat, 
and  with  the  strength  of  a  giant,  hurled  him  to 
the  floor,  but  did  not  remit  his  grasp.  He 
would  have  strangled  him  in  a  moment  more, 
had  not  his  reason  seemed  partially  to  return, 
when  he  sprang  from  his  victim,  exclaiming : 
"  Oh,  no,  not  blood,  unless  it  be  my  own  !"  He 
rushed  from  the  house.  When  he  was  found, 
he  was  lying  upon  the  floor  of  one  of  the  lowest 
and  vilest  "  hells"  in  the  place,  in  a  worse  con- 
dition than  when  I  first  saw  liim,  and  was 
again  removed  to  iiis  lodgings  at  the  parsonage. 
I  have  done  what  I  can  for  him,  but  there  is  no 
hope  in  his  case. 

1  l//i. — Although  there  is  no  alteration  for  the 
better,  yet  he  is  this  morning  sensible,  and  filled 
with  the  deepest  shame,  but  says  still  that  he 
cannot  resist  liis  thirst.     He  is  in  great  pain, 


THE  MEDICAL  STUDENT. 


205 


v.luch  does  not  yield  to  profuse  bleeding,  nor 
any  applications  which  have  been  made. 

When  I  reached  home,  after  having  made  my 
round  of  calls,  I  was  told  that  a  lady  had  ar- 
rived, and  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  parlor. 

Supposing  it  was  the  sister  of  George  VV s, 

whom  I  was  looking  for  to-day,  I  immediately 
went  up.  I  found  a  beautiful  girl,  of  apparent- 
I}'^  twenty  years,  wlio  rose  and  advanced  as  I 
entered  the  room.  Her  eyes  were  very  red 
with  weeping,  and  her  voice  was  broken  with 

sobs,  as  she  inquired  if  I  were  Doctor  P ? 

I  told  her  I  was,  and  asked  her  if  she  was  the 
lady  I  was  expecting. 

"  You  were  looking  for  George's  sister,"  she 
replied ;  "  but  she  is  very  ill,  and  could  not  come. 
Your  letter  alarmed  us  exceedingly,  while,  at 
the  same  time,  it  relieved  us  of  a  dreadful 
anxiety.  George  left  home  a  few  weeks  since, 
and  we  had  not  heard  from  him  till  your  letter 
informed  us  he  was  here.  And  how  is  he, 
Doctor — is  he  very  ill  ?" 

1  hesitated  &  moment,  not  knowing  how  to 
reply,  when  she  continued  : 

"  You  need  not  hide  anything  from  me.  Doc- 
tor ;  I  am  prepared  to  learn  the  worst.  Tell 
me  all  the  truth;  for  I  am  come  to  see  him  die, 
if  it  must  be  so,  only  I  have  hoped  to  see  him 
changed  from  what  he  was  !"  and  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

I  perceived  at  once  that  there  was  no  neces- 
sity for  hidhig  anything  from  her,  and  I  told 
her  all  I  knew  of  him  since  he  had  come  to  this 
place,  and  the  condition  in  which  he  then  was. 
She  insisted  on  going  immediately  to  see  him, 
and  I  accompanied  her. 

I  cannot  describe,  if  I  would,  the  heart-rend- 
ing scene  that  occurred  there.  She  threw  her- 
self upon  his  neck,  in  a  burst  of  agonizing 
grief,  in  which  he  joined  her,  with  apparently 
as  deep  and  sincere  feeling  as  her  own.  It  is 
the  strangest  feature  in  his  case,  that  he  feels 
so  fully  his  whole  humiliation,  and  the  vileness 
of  his  indulgence,  and  looks  upon  it  with  as 
much  disgust  and  abhorrence  as  any  one,  yet  is 
utterly  unable  to  follow  out  the  impulses  of  his 
reason.  It  seems  that  the  lady  is  his  wife,  to 
whom  he  has  been  married  about  two  years. 
After  the  first  burst  of  grief  liad  subsided,  he 
removed  her  gently  from  his  embrace,  and  look- 
ing her  in  the  face  with  an  expression  of  most 
pitying  love,  he  said,  in  a  tender  but  somewhat 
reproachful  voice : 

"  Why  are  you  here,  Mary  ?  Was  it  not 
enough  that  I  have  been  a  shame  and  sorrow  to 


you  for  these  two  years  past ;  and  now,  when  I 
had  fled  from  you,  to  rid  you  of  my  loathsome 
presence,  you  must  still  search  me  out !" 

"  Do  not  say  so,  George,"  she  replied.  "  You 
know  that  you  never  wronged  me,  and  that  I 
loved  you  with  all  my  soul.  Why  should  I  not 
be  here,  to  comfort  you  now  in  your  sickness, 
and  try  to  raise  you  up  ?     Who  so  fit  as  I  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  you  must  not  talk 
of  my  getting  up  again.  I  shall  never  recover. 
I  feel  certain  that  I  am  dying,  and  that  very  few 
days  remain  to  me ;  and  I  am  glad  for  your  sake 
it  is  so.  I  do  not  wish  to  live,  dearly  as  I  love 
you,  and  have  loved  you  in  all  my  guilt.  Life 
to  me  would  be  only  a  scene  of  shame,  and 
filled  with  constant  self-reproach  ;  and  to  you, 
Mary,  what  would  it  be  but  bitterness  and 
grief?" 

It  is  strange  how  the  conflicting  emotions  in 
his  mind  give  place  to  each  other,  or  rather, 
how  the  better  feelings  and  thoughts  are  con- 
tinually active,  but  cannot  subdue  the  earthly 
passion.  I  left  them  to  themselves,  with  a  faint 
hope  that  she  might  be  able  to  direct  his  mind 
away  from  his  ruling  desire,  and  that  his  heart 
may  be  led  to  look  upward  for  strength. 

1  llh. — For  several  days  past  I  have  made  no 

notes  of  the  case  of  George  W s.     He  has 

been  in  continual  and  severe  pain,  and  describes 
his  feelings  as  a  consuming  fire  within  him.  He 
writhes  in  agony  for  hours,  and  then,  worn  out 
and  exhausted  with  the  distress,  he  sinks  into 
a  broken  and  uneasy  slumber.  Mary  does  not 
leave  his  side,  but  day  and  night  is  his  affec- 
tionate and  untiring  nurse.  In  his  paroxysms 
of  pain,  he  begs  her  most  piteously  for  his  fa- 
vorite drink,  but  is  always  kind  to  her,  and 
yields  to  her  persuasions.  But  the  thirst  is  not 
to  be  controlled.  It  seems  to  be,  as  he  often 
describes  it,  a  thirst  of  his  mind.  Such  is  the 
power  of  this  vile  habit,  that  it  bends  the  whole 
soul  under  its  influence.  Remedies  seem  to  be 
powerless,  and  he  is  hourly  drawing  nearer  to 
death  ;  and  he  feels  this,  and  looks  upon  it  as  a 
desirable  event.  He  has  often  conversed  with 
the  clergyman  in  whose  house  he  lies ;  and 
though  his  .views  of  religion  are  eminently 
clear  and  correct,  he  professes  no  hope  for  the 
world  to  come. 

"  How  can  I  hope,"  he  says, "  with  the  truth 
continually  in  my  mind,  that  no  drunkard  can 
inherit  the  kingdom  of  God  ?  What  is  all  my 
remorse  of  soul,  when  I  feel  that  with  the  first 
opportunity  I  should  immediately  wilfully  do  as 
I  have  done  before  ?    My  whole  mind  is  now 


206 


BEFORE     THE    WIND. 


awake,  and  as  active  as  it  was  years  ago ;  and 
still  I  feel  that  1  have  no  power  to  resist  my  ap- 
petite." 

18th. — Last  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  he 
experienced  a  sudden  and  entire  cessation  of 
pain,  which  he  felt  to  be  the  precursor  of  death. 
He  called  his  wife  to  his  side,  and  conversed 
wit!i  her  calmly  of  the  event,  and  endeavored 
to  prepare  her  mind  for  it.  She  was  already 
prepared,  yet  she  was  overwhelmed  with  pro- 
found sorrow.  In  all  his  fiults  she  had  clung 
to  him  with  the  unfailing  fervor  of  woman's 
love,  hoping  against  hope,  to  the  last.  What 
if  he  was  a  drunkard  !  What  if  he  was  de- 
spised by  men  !  Was  he  not  her  husband,  and 
did  he  not  love  her  yet,  as  he  had  loved  her 
when  they  were  first  married  ? 

It  is  remarkable,  that  with  the  cessation  of 
the  pain,  tliere  was  also  an  end  of  his  control- 


ling appetite.  This  he  spoke  of,  and  wondered 
at  the  change.  At  the  same  time  returned  to 
him,  with  the  clearness  and  distinctness  of  later 
days,  all  his  former  hopes  and  prospects  of  the 
future.  It  seemed  as  if  in  his  dying  hour  his 
spirit  was  being  freed  from  its  sensual  bonds, 
that  he  might  look  up  again  like  a  man,  and  see 
the  light  of  truth  that  he  had  loved  and  gloried 
in  in  other  days.     At  twelve  o'clock  he  died. 

Note  to  the  Reader. — The  case  detailed  above 
occurred  many  years  since,  before  any  associated 
effort  was  made  to  stay  the  torrent  of  intemperance 
in  iliis'ocuntry.  It  is  a  truth  of  very  recent  discov- 
ery, that  the  most  abandoned  and  hopeless  drunk- 
ard may  be  reformed,  not  by  his  own  resolution 
entirely,  but  by  the  aid  he  derives  from  being  asso- 
ciated with  others  who  are  sunk  in  tiie  same  mire. 
Un.ler  these  influences,  it  is  not   impossible   but 

George  W s  might  also  have  been  rescued,  and 

raised  to  the  position  from  which  he  had  fallen. 


IBlf®mi    fMl    WIEM 


BY     BEV. 


BULKLEY. 


At  sea  !  at  sf  a  !  the  waters  free 
Fpeak  from  their  myriad  lips  of  life, 

While  o'er  them  creep,  like  dreams  in  sleep, 
The  sunbeam's  feet  in  lustrous  strife. 

Oh  !  bright  they  flash,  as  on  they  dash, 
Like  glancing  swords  in  combat  fierce ; 

Tliey  strike  each  wave,  till  ocean's  crve 
Tells  how  its  peaceful  depths  they  pierce. 

Far  glistening  round  th'  horizon's  bound, 
A  gauze-like  haze  hangs  on  the  air. 

Like  curtains  high  for  earth  and  sky, 
Their  bridal  union  to  declare. 

The  soft  cool  wind  floats  right  behind, 
Our  sails  swell  full  and  fair  to  see, 

Like  lily  breast  of  maid  at  rest. 
In  dreams  of  love's  pure  ecstacy. 

We  scarcely  heed,  as  swift  we  speed, 
The  airy  step  that  follows  fast ; 

For  on  the  wing  of  breathing  spring 
We  seem  to^fly  in  equal  haste. 


As  in  a  grot,  where  winds  blow  not. 
Our  lips  disturb  some  springlet's  pool ; 

We  quaff"  this  air,  that  floweth  near, 
As  if  'twere  born  of  waters  cool. 

Our  spirits  bound,  like  many  a  hound. 
Just  loosed  to  join  the  stirring  chase. 

While  we  seem  fanned  by  some  soft  hand. 
That  o'er  us  waves  with  airy  grace. 

The  billowy  gems  make  diadems, 
Our  vessel's  life-like  brow  to  crown  ; 

And  hymnings  sweet  about  us  meet, 
In  harmonies  which  heaven  might  own. 

Oh  !  from  our  hearts  the  deep  tide  starts, 
At  grateful  sights  and  sounds  like  these ; 

And  thoughts  flow  up,  from  life's  full  cup, 
As  fresh  to  God  as  falls  his  breeze. 

Who  could  be  sad,  while  nature,  glad, 
Would  touch  the  spirit's  deepest  strings, 

To  make  them  chime  the  notes  which  time 
Far  to  eternal  regions  flings  ? 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER.        207 


ILIgA¥IgS 


FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


BT  PHILIP    PHILLIPS,    ESQ. 


£eaf  1. 


THE    MUBDEBEB. 


CHAPTER  1. 


The  spring  flowers  were  but  just  blooming 
in  the  glen,  on  the  warmer  side,  where  the 
sunshine  fell  with  kindliest  caress,  and  the 
leaves  had  only  shown  on  the  willow  tree  by 
the  spring,  while  all  the  forest  was  still  in  dry, 
leafless  coldness.  It  was  as  fair  a  day  as  the 
sunshine  ever  brought  to  the  south  side  of  old 
Long  Island;  and  the  birds  were  beginning 
their  summer  music  in  the  ti'ees.  From  afar 
off'  came  the  dull,  deep  roar  of  the  ocean, 
brought  up  by  the  south  wind,  that  shook  the 
branches  of  the  old  elm  over  the  cottage,  and 
occnsionally  rattled  a  shingle  against  its  side. 
All  but  the  wind  was  peaceful,  calm,  even 
holy ;  and  the  wind  was  not  unholy,  but  its 
voice  was  rather  threatening  than  otherwise  ; 
so  much  so,  that  the  old  man,  who  was  stand- 
ing, with  bis  pipe  in  his  mouth,  in  the  door  of 
the  cottage,  looked  wistfully  up  into  the  sky, 
and  said :  "  It  will  blow  a  gale  before  to-mor- 
row !  I'll  go  down  to  the  bay,  and  get  the 
boats  in ;"  and  so  started,  on  foot,  down  the 
side  of  the  brook,  to  the  bay,  which  is  pit)- 
tected  by  the  great  South  Beach  of  Long 
Island. 

Had  you  been  seated,  half  an  hour  later, 
on  the  bank  of  that  little  stream,  facing  the 
door  of  the  cottage,  you  might  have  seen  it 
open,  and  a  girl  of  sixteen  summers  step  out 
on  the  stone ;  and  had  she  seen  you  seated 


there,  she  would  Lave  gone  back  more  swiftly, 
for  she  was  a  timid  child,  and  the  sudden  flut- 
ter of  a  bird's  wing  in  the  forest  often  startled 
her.  You  might  think  her,  at  the  first  glance, 
of  Spanish  blood ;  and  yet  the  outline  of  the 
forehead,  and  especially  its  height,  and  the 
massive  appearance  of  the  eyebrows,  indicated 
northern  parentage.  That  she  was  eminently 
beautiftil,  might  not  be  denied,  and  her  youth 
gave  promise  of  still  greater  beauty  when  it 
should  be  matured. 

Her  history  was  simply  this.  A  schooner 
came  ashore  on  the  South  Beach,  and  went 
to  pieces.  All  on  board,  save  two,  were  lost ; 
and  when  their  bodies  came  rolling  up  on 
shore,  they  buried  them,  with  simple  rites, 
and  marked  their  resting-places  with  hewn 
stakes.  Yet  in  that  fearful  night  a  mother 
and  her  child  survived  the  storm,  and,  being 
lashed  to  a  broad  plank,  floated  shoreward, 
and  finally  came  in,  through  the  inlet,  with  a 
tremendous  surge.  But  before  morning  dawn- 
ed the  mother  died,  in  the  cottage  of  the  old 
farmer ;  and  the  child,  a  girl  of  two  years  old, 
was  playing  merrily  before  the  hearth  fire, 
heedless  of  her  mother's  clay.  That  mother's 
last  moan  (for  she  did  not  speak  after  she  was 
found)  changed  into  an  exclamation  of  joy,  as 
she  opened  her  eyes  just  long  enough  to  see 
her  bright-eyed  girl  laughing  gaily  in  old  Mar- 


208        LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW- YORK  LAWYER. 


tha's  arms  ;  and  smiling  on  the  child — a  smile 
that  lingered  around  her  pathway  all  her  life 
long — she  died.  The  child  called  herself 
Can-ie.  Other  than  this,  none  knew  her 
name  or  parentage ;  but  some  months  after- 
ward, it  was  said  that  the  schooner  had  sailed 
from  England,  with  six  passengers,  among 
whom  were  two  ladies,  each  having  a  child 
entered  on  the  list ;  but  which  was  Carrie's 
mother  none  could  tell ;  and  so,  not  knowing 
what  name  to  call  her,  the  old  man  gave  her 
his  own  name,  and  Carrie  White  was  the  pet 
of  the  south  side.  No  gi-eat  place  to  be  pet- 
ted, indeed,  but  still  among  those  hardy  men 
there  were  warm  hearts,  arid  companionship 
enough  for  her  till  she  grew  older.  Then  she 
sought  company  in  the  ocean  and  the  sky ; 
and  learning  from  Martha  (Martha  was  the 
wife  of  old  Robert  White)  that  the  cross  of 
wood  in  the  little  graveyard  marked  the  grave 
of  her  mother,  she  had  a  fancy  for  sitting 
there,  and  looking  off  into  the  sea.  How 
deeply,  soundly,  sweetly,  slept  the  dead  by 
the  sea-side !  nor  woke  in  tempest,  nor  turned 
restlessly  when  the  surf-thunder  shook  their 
couches ! 

Martha  taught  her  to  read,  and  I  gave  her 
books,  and  taught  her  French,  German,  and 
Latin.  I — oh,  1  forgot  that  I  have  not  told 
you  how  1  came  to  know  her.  In  one  of  my 
summer  rambles,  fishing  and  boating,  just  after 
I  graduated  at  Princeton,  I  had  met  her  in 
the  graveyard.  She  was  a  faiiy  child  then, 
of  nine  or  ten ;  and  I  was  so  struck  with  her 
appearance,  that  I  inquired  her  history,  and 
learning  it,  I  made  it  an  object  to  assist  her  in 
her  study,  for  I  found  she  had  a  taste  for  it 
not  often  equaled.  Every  summer,  for  seve- 
ral years,  I  passed  some  weeks  here ;  and  as 
Carrie  grew  up,  she  learned  to  love  me  as  a 
father.  She  grasped  knowledge  with  avidity, 
and  I  was  especially  struck  with  the  ease  with 
which  she  mastered  the  difficulties  of  Ger- 
man. During  my  absence,  I  sent  her  books ; 
and  during  my  stay  near  the  cottage,  I  direct- 
ed and  planned  all  her  studies  for  the  year  to 
come.  So,  time  flow  along;  and  at  lengtli  I 
was  established  in  my  office,  in  Nassau-street. 
And  now,  by  your  leave,  we  will  return  to  the 
spring  morning,  of  which  I  spoke  some  time 
ago. 

She  came  out  of  the  cottage,  and  taking  her 
way  up  the  glen,  crossed  the  brook  at  tlie  lit- 
tle log  bridge,  so  well  known  to  trout-fishers 
of  that  day ;  and  passing  out  of  the  forest  into 


the  road  that  crosses  the  hill,  just  above  the 
bridge,  walked  hastily  up  to  the  village.  I  have 
followed  her  path  thus,  simply  that  you  may 
have  an  idea  of  its  locality,  as  we  sliall  have 
occasion  to  refer  to  it  again. 

In  the  village,  her  errand  was  at  the  store ; 
but  she  was  surprised,  on  entering,  to  find  two 
young  men  there,  one  of  whom  was  an  ac- 
quaintance— I  might  say  more  than  an  ac- 
quaintance ;  for  when  I  brougltt  Frank  Nich- 
olson, then  a  student  in  my  office,  down  to  the 
beach  with  me  to  fish,  I  had  no  sort  of  idea  of 
allowing  him  to  fall  in  love  with  my  pretty  Car- 
rie. But  he  did ;  and  she  had,  very  naturally, 
returned  the  love  of  the  handsomest  and  wit- 
tiest man  she  had  ever  met,  albeit  she  was  only 
sixteen,  and  Frank  lacked  two  years  of  his  ma- 
jority. Altogether  itwasaromanticaf!air,and  I 
only  regret  that  I  have  not  the  time  nor  room  to 
tell  you  all  the  particulars.  When  I  first  heard 
of  it,  I  sent  Frank  up  to  the  city,  with  a  pack- 
age of  blank  papers,  sealed  in  an  envelop,  and 
a  note  to  my  partner,  asking  him  to  give  Frank 
as  much  to  do  as  possible,  and  not  allow  him  to 
come  down  again  on  any  account.  A  week 
afterwai-d,  I  was  in  the  stoi"e  in  which  the  post- 
office  was  kept,  while  the  stage  was  waiting 
for  the  mail  to  be  overhauled.  There  were  just 
six  letters  in  the  mail — four  for  myself,  one  for 
a  farmer,  who  seized  it  instantly,  and  the  sixth, 
as  it  lay  on  the  counter,  bore  legibly  the  scrawl 
of  Frank  Nicholson.  I  had  seen  it  too  often  on 
the  back  of  bills  and  pleas,  to  mistake  that  cai'e- 
less  scratch ;  and  I  gave  up  to  Frank  the  in- 
stant I  read,  "  Miss  Can-ie  White,  care  of  Mr. 
Robert  White,  E ,  L.  I."  I  went  to  New- 
York  myself,  called  Frank  into  my  private 
room,  asked  him  what  he  meant  to  do,  and 
received  his  candid  reply,  that  he  never  had 
thought  of  it.  I  asked  him  to  think  seriously 
whether  he  would  be  willing  to  mairy  Carrie 
White,  and  answer  mo  the  next  day.  He  an- 
swered me  as  I  had  expected  ;  and  I  called  on 
his  father.  A  reasonable  old  gentleman  was 
Mr.  Nicholson ;  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  en- 
tering into  an  agreement  with  him  that  Carrie 
should  bo  the  wife  of  Frank,  in  case  she  con- 
sented ;  which  she  did. 

One  of  the  young  men  in  the  store  was 
Frank,  and  the  other  a  stranger,  who  Avaa  at 
the  moment  in  earnest  debate  with  Frank. 
Carrie  was  not  a  little  rt>joiced,  in  place  of  the 
letter  she  liiid  come  for,  to  find  Frank  himself, 
who  had  but  just  left  the  stage  at  the  store,  and 
was  inquiring  in  as  roundabout  a  manner  as  he 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW- YORK  LAWYER. 


209 


could  of  Mr.  W.,  whether  the  old  folks  at  the 
cottage  were  well,  and  all  the  rest.  This  had 
led  to  a  discussion  of  the  weather,  and  the 
best  weather  for  fishing,  and  the  best  manner 
of  taking  blue  fish ;  and  finally,  the  entrance 
of  Carrie  interrupted  them,  and  PVank  sprang 
to  her  side.  She  forgot  her  errand  and  every- 
thing else,  (what  cared  she  to  ask  for  a  letter 
now  ?)  and  in  five  minutes  they  were  strolling 
down  the  path  together. 


You  will  now  pardon  me  if  I  narrate  what 
may  seem  to  be  unimjwilant  particulars  of 
this  tale,  for  thus  far  it  has  been  of  no  impor- 
tance as  regards  the  matter  of  the  murder, 
which  is  to  make  its  chief  incident.  As  they 
turned  from  the  road  down  the  slight  descent 
into  what  makes,  on  Long  Island,  a  glen,  they 
were  overtaken  by  the  young  man  who  was 
in  the  store  when  Canie  entered. 


CHAPTER    II, 


He  was  a  noble-looking  feljow,  with  a 
keen  black  eye  and  lithe  form,  but  far  from 
equaling  in  weight  or  symmetrical  strength 
the  matchless  build  of  Nicholson.  His  voice, 
however,  was  modulated  with  admirable  skill, 
and  although  they  were  at  the  first  an- 
noyed at  his  presence,  yet  his  conversation  be- 
came of  much  interest ;  and  there  was  so  much 
of  the  polish  of  the  world  united  with  frankness, 
when  he  handed  Nicholson  his  card  and  apolo- 
gized for  attaching  himself  to  them,  inasmuch 
as  he  was  seeking  the  way  to  one  Robert 
White's  cottage,  and  was  told  they  were  going 
Uiere,  that  after  all  they  had  no  such  great  ob- 
jection to  his  company.  Frank  said  he  should 
not  have  cared  so  much,  but  he  half  believed  he 
had  seen  him  touch  his  lips  to  Carrie's  when 
they  first  entered  the  woods,  as  he  came  up  but 
a  few  moments  later.  They  walked  on  to- 
gether, however,  and  he,  after  an  introduction 
to  Carrie  in  formal  style,  as  thus — "  Miss 
White,  this  is  Mr.  Burritt,"  entered  so  merrily 
into  conversation,  that  they  all  laughed  together 
a  dozen  times  within  ten  minutes.  "  By-the- 
way,  Mr.  Nicholson,  I  ought  to  know  you  :  you 
graduated  at  Yale  two  years  ago,  did  you 
not  ?"  "  I  did."  "  I  was  one  class  behind  you." 
"  Is  it  possible  ?"  "  Yes ;  but  I  was  a  Linonian. 
You  belonged  to  the  other  society,  I  think." 
*'  No,  I  was  a  Linonian  also."'  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible ?  I  had  forgotten  it.  But  no  wonder  we 
nevei  met ;  you  were  somewhat  exclusive,  I 
remember."  Strange  that  my  favorite  and  pe- 
culiarly sharp-witted  Frank  should  have  swal- 
lowed so  readily  this  last  compliment ;  for  no 
greater  compliment  can  be  paid  to  a  student 
nsoally  than  to  tell  him  he  was  exclusive  in  his 


company.  The  ability  to  be  exclusive  in  col- 
lege implies  a  high  position.  Frank  was  de- 
ceived, and  so  was  I  afterward.  Burritt  had 
never  been  at  Yale. 

He  was  a  student  at  law  also,  in  Philadel- 
phia. He  had  come  on  to  find  Robert  White, 
and  tell  him  that  by  the  death  of  an  old  brother 
in  Philadelphia,  he  was  sole  heir  to  some  ten 
thousand  dollars  in  stocks,  and  five  thousand 
more  in  real  estate,  all  lying  in  New-York  city. 

I  will  now  pass  over  a  week,  during  which 
Burritt  stayed  at  E.,  fishing  and  shooting  with 
Frank,  and  visiting  Carrie  under  pretence  of 
seeing  Robert.  Frank  became  annoyed  at  his 
continual  presence,  and  at  length  they  had 
some  harsh  words  in  the  cottage.  That  same 
evening,  on  his  way  up  the  glen,  at  eleven 
o'clock  or  thereabouts,  Frank  met  him. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  rock  near  the  bridge  of 
logs,  and  when  Frank  approached  he  rose  and 
said  : 

"  I  wish  to  say  something  to  you,  Mr.  Nichol- 
son. You  have  used  words  to  me  in  that  cot- 
tage to-right  that  I  cannot  have  used  to  me 
alone,  much  less  before  others.  And  now  I 
swear  by — (I  omit  his  oaths) — that  I  will  have 
revenge  for  that.  Not  now^ — not  now.  Don't 
stand  with  your  rifle  raised  so.  But  I  tell  you 
here,  my  friend,  I  love  that  girl  myself,  and  I 

will  marry  her,  and  you "     (Here  followed 

a  succession  of  oaths.) 

Burritt  left  in  the  morning  stage,  and  Frank 
forgot  all  this  in  a  week's  stay.  The  next 
month  Robert  White  was  in  possession  of  hia 
fortune,  but  he  stayed  in  the  cottage.  Indeed, 
he  needed  no  better  home.  It  had  four  large 
rooms  in  it:   what  need  of  room  had  they? 


210 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW- YORK  LAWYER. 


But  Carrie,  by  my  advice,  was  now  sent  away 
to  school  in  Connecticut.  A  year  passed,  and 
nothing  of  importance  had  occurred.  In  one 
of  Carrie's  letters  to  nue  she  had  spoken  of  liav- 
ing  been  surprised  at  meeting  Mr.  Biirritt  in 
the  house  of  an  old  lady  near  the  school,  and 
that  she  understood  he  was  entirely  a  different 
man,  and  was  studying  for  the  ministry.  Slie 
had,  however,  refused  ipo  see  him  when  he  called 
at  the  seminary  and  sent  up  his  card.  This 
item  is  important,  inasmucli  as  it  formed  one  of 
the  chain  of  facts  which  rendered  the  terrible 
passion  he  afterwards  exhibited  more  probable 
than  it  might  have  been.  I  paid  no  attention 
to  it  at  the  time,  for  his  name  had  never  been 
mentioned  to  me  by  Frank  or  Carrie.  Anotlier 
year  passed  as  the  first  one  at  her  school,  and 
during  that  time  two  or  three  incidents  took 
place  that  are  to  be  recorded.  In  a  vacation, 
while  she  was  in  New- York,  she  had  met  Bur- 
ritt  in  the  street,  and  he  had  turned  and  walked 
some  blocks  with  her.  At  parting  he  bowed 
politely,  and  begged  the  privilege  of  calling  on 
her.  She  had  already  often  repented  what  she 
fancied  had  been  rudeness  in  the  refusal  to  see 

him  at  H ,  and  therefore  handed  to  him,  as 

she  supposed,  one  of  half  a  dozen  cards  on 
which  she  had  penciled  her  name  and  the 
number  of  tlie  house  at  which  she  was  staying 
with  a  school-mate.  But  it  seems  she  had  a 
card  of  my  sister's  in  her  hand,  which  was 
penciled  in  the  same  way.  That  evening  the 
servant  answered  the  door-bell,  and  I  was  at 
the  front  window.  I  heard  the  reply,  "  No 
such  person  has  been  here,  sir — don't  know  the 
name."  The  door  shut,  and  as  the  visitor 
came  within  my  view  I  saw  his  face  under  a 
street  lamp.  Its  expression  was  demoniacal. 
I  rang  instantly  and  inquired  who  called.  "  A 
gentleman  called  for  Miss  White,  sir.  I  told 
him  Mr.  Phillips  lived  here,  but  I  didn't  know 
any  Miss  White."  The  incident  passed  from 
my  memory  entirely.  Subsequent  events  re- 
called it. 

One  other  fact, and  I  pass  over  this  year.  One 
pleasant  evening  in  summer  Frank  left  the 
seminary,  where  he  had  been  to  call  on  Carrie, 
and  was  walking  slowly  toward  the  hotel,  when 
he  again  met  Burritt.  He  had  not  seen  him 
since  that  night  in  the  glen,  and  scarcely  knew 
him. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  Mr.  Nicholson. 
By  Heaven,  sir,  you  shall  suiTer  for  that  insult." 

Then  followed  oatba  and  execrations  in- 
namerable. 


"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Frank  mildly,  "  you  are 
mad — let  me  talk  to  you." 

"  No,  no  !  I  want  no  word  from  you.  You 
shall  never  marry  that  girl — never." 

Frank  was  so  impressed  with  the  fiendish 
expression  of  his  face,  that  he  returned  to  the 
seminary  and  begged  Carrie  not  to  leave  the 
house  without  company  after  nightfall  on  any 
errand  whatever.  But  they  saw  no  more  of 
Burritt  until  the  following  winter. 

One  dreary  afternoon,  wlien  the  surf  thun- 
dered loudly  on  the  beach,  Carrie  was  walking 
down  the  glen  to  the  cottage.  She  had  changed 
much,  and  looked  as  she  never  had  before, 
wholly  out  of  place  in  that  dull  forest.  Her 
step  was  queenly,  and  her  face  lit  with  a  smile 
of  perfect  joy.  She  had  a  letter  from  Frank  in 
her  hand,  and  the  wedding-day  was  set.  After 
crossing  the  log  bridge  she  paused  and  rested, 
and  looked  around  her.  As  she  sat  there 
Burritt  advanced  to  meet  her.  At  first  sur- 
prised, yet  not  alarmed,  she  raised  herself  up 
with  dignity  as  he  addressed  her  in  low,  earnest 
tones.  She  had  been  taught  by  Frank  to  re- 
gard him  as  a  maniac,  and  she  now  wondered 
at  his  calmness.  I  have  not  space  to  detail 
this  conversation.  Suffice  it  to  say,  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  was  refused  ;  he  threatened, 
and  was  treated  with  scorn ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
violent  imprecations  he  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  old  Mr.  White,  and  hastened  away. 
I  have  now  to  hasten  through  the  particulars  of 
a  trial  for  murder,  and  you  will  have  my  story 
complete. 

Mr.  Nicholson  moved  from  New-York  to  a 
beautiful  countr}'-seat  on  tlie  bank  of  the  Hud- 
son, some  distance  from  the  city.  Across  the 
river  and  three  miles  above  his  residence  was 
the  mansion  of  Col.  Davis,  whose  family  were 
intimately  connected  with  the  Nicholsons.  One 
winter  evening  a  large  party  were  assembled 
at  Col.  Davis's  house,  and  the  wine  and  the 
dance  made  merry  hearts  yet  merrier.  Frank 
was  there,  of  course.  At  midnight  he  was 
about  to  go  home,  and  went  out  upon  the  porch 
and  drew  on  his  boating  coat — a  licavy  brown 
coat — preparatory  to  starting.  But  at  that  in- 
stant Col.  Davis  came  out  and  persuaded  him 
to  remain  all  the  night.  He  returned  to  the 
hall,  called  in  his  servant,  who  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  gave  him  directions  to  return  and  say 
he  should  not  be  at  home  that  night.  He  also 
gave  him  this  coat  to  carry  home,  and  then  re- 
joined the  gay  party  in  the  lighted  rooms. 

The  next  morning  this  servant  was  found  in 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


21  i 


the  woods,  not  far  from  the  river,  with  Frank's 
coat  on,  dead.  A  ball  had  been  sent  through 
his  head  from  ear  to  ear,  and  his  face  was  so 
blackened,  that  it  was  evident  the  pistol  must 
have  been  pressed  close  against  it.  The  whole 
country-side  was  roused  to  detect  the  murderer, 
but  every  clue  failed  ;  and,  a  month  afterward, 
the  incident  seemed  to  be  forgotten.  Three 
months  afterward  I  was  at  Mr.  Nicholson's 
residence,  and  a  man  called  to  see  me,  with  a 
request  that  I  would  go  over  to  the  jail  and  see 
a  man  who  had  been  arrested  for  the  murder 
of  the  servant  of  Mr.  N.  I  went  and  found 
him  in  prison,  his  clothes  torn  and  his  face  in- 
jured by  blows  he  had  received  when  arrested. 
But  I  never  saw  a  calmer  face,  or  one  more 
perfectly  expressive  of  innocence.  I  had  not 
then  the  experience  I  now  have  in  detecting 
the  hypocrisy  of  men,  but  I  do  not  believe  at 
this  moment  I  should  pronounce  that  face  the 
face  of  any  other  than  a  wronged  man. 

I  will  not  linger  now  on  the  evidence  against 
him.  It  was  overwhelming.  He  had  been 
seen  the  night  of  the  murder  at  a  small  tavern 
on  the  river's  bank.  He  had  pistols.  The 
landlord,  looking  with  impertinent  curiosity 
through  his  key-hole,  had  seen  him  loading 
them  with  care,  and  when  he  left  the  tavern  at 
ten  that  night,  his  face  was  muffled  up  in  a 
huge  tippet  and  his  step  was  peculiarly  nervous. 
He  returned  after  midnight ;  slept  apparently 
on  his  bed  without  undressing ;  and  the  mud 
which  his  boots  had  left  on  the  coverlet  could 
have  come  from  no  place  but  near  the  scene  of 
the  murder,  as  there  was  a  foot  of  snow  all 
over  the  ground  elsewhere.  He  left  early  in 
the  morning,  and  the  landlord  had  kept  track  of 
him,  waiting  for  a  reward  to  be  offered,  and 
then  disclosed  his  suspicions.  Careful  measure- 
ment had  been  made  of  the  foot-prints  in  the 
snow,  and  they  had  been  traced  to  the  nearest 
road,  but,  of  course,  no  farther.  After  his  arrest 
his  boots  were  found  to  fit  the  foot-prints  exactly. 
A  man,  who  had  seen  him  go  on  board  a  sloop 
the  next  morning,  swore  to  the  fact  of  his  hav- 
ing gloves  on,  and  that  the  left  glove  had  a  red 
stain  on  it,  which  he  noticed  particularly  as  he 
took  hold  of  a  barrel  to  help  lift  it  on  board. 
The  captain  of  the  sloop  had  seen  him  throw 
those  gloves  overboard,  and,  expressing  sur- 
prise, was  told  that  they  were  badly  stained. 
Fifty  similar  facts  were  proved,  and  yet  tliere 
was  lacking  the  one  great  evidence  in  a  mur- 
der case,  and  that  was  a  moth''. 

The  young  man  arrested  was  rMnoved  across   \ 


the  river  to  the  jail  in county,  and  to  my 

surprise,  he  offered  me  a  large  retaining  fee. 
Expressing  my  doubt  of  his  ability  to  pay  me 
so  liberally,  he  replied  by  requesting  me  to  mail 
a  letter  for  him  to  Philadelphia  and  wait  a  re- 
ply. In  the  course  of  the  next  week  he  re- 
ceived a  tnmk  of  clothing,  and  a  letter  came 
under  inclosure  to  me  containing  a  certificate 
of  deposit  of  one  thousand  dollars  in  a  Phila- 
delphia bank,  to  the  credit  of  James  Judsonj 
Esq.,  and  subject  to  his  order.  In  brief,  I  be- 
lieved my  client  to  be  exactly  what  he  repre- 
sented himself — a  young  man  of  wealth  and 
good  family  in  the  South,  unfortunately  in- 
volved in  very  suspicious  circumstances.  And 
I  confess  that  for  two  months  I  had  little  hopes 
of  saving  him  from  the  gallows.  However,  a 
gentleman  appeared  at  the  end  of  tliat  time, 
who  was  ready  to  testify  to  his  character  and 
standing  in  society,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
other  witnesses  to  the  tame  effect,  I  began  to 
hope  for  success. 

As  firmly  as  I  believed  him  innocent,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  as  to  the  guilt  of  another 
man,  and  that  man  was  the  landlord  before 
mentioned.  To  collect  testimony  to  that  effect 
was  my  greatest  labor,  and  then  to  plan  tlie 
proper  manner  of  introducing  it.  I  determined, 
at  length,  to  do  it  by  impeaching  the  witness 
for  the  prosecution,  and  showing  him  interested 
to  convict  the  prisoner.  After  long  delays, 
which  I  succeeded  in  interposing,  I  amassed  as 
strong  a  case  of  evidence  against  him  as  could 
be  found  against  the  prisoner,  and  then  suffered 
the  trial  to  come  on.  Within  a  week  of  the 
day  of  trial,  his  sister  arrived  from  the  far 
South.  He  had  refused  to  write  to  her,  but 
some  friend  had  written,  and  she  came  to  .stand 
by  him.  The  instant  I  saw  her  face  I  felt  al- 
most sure  of  my  verdict.  Such  a  face  in 
court  was  worth  a  dozen  witnesses  of  good 
character. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  she  came  down  to 
the  city  to  my  office,  and  I  had  a  long  conver- 
sation with  her.  Said  she,  "  You  will  pardon 
my  brother,  Mr.  Phillips,  for  having  deceived 
even  you  in  one  respect.  His  name  is  not 
Judson,  but  Burritt.  He  feared  that  if  you 
knew  it,  it  might  by  some  accident  reach  these 
newspaper  reporters,  and  he  would  not  have  our 
old  father  know  of  his  situation  for  the  world. 
It  would  kill  him." 

I  was  not  surprised,  though  somewhat  sorry 
to  learn  that  he  had  not  placed  as  much  confi- 
dence in  me  as  I  supposed.      But  the  name, 


^12 


LEAVES  FROxM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


which  you  recognize  as  that  of  Frank  Nichol- 
son's enemy,  had  never  been  mentioned  to  me 
then,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  what  you  know 
now.  I  was  ready  for  trial  now,  and  went  up 
to county  to  attend  the  Oyer  and  Termi- 
ner sittings  of  the  Court.  Two  or  three  cases 
of  larceny  were  disposed  of  the  first  day,  and 
the  second  we  commenced  the  impanneiing  of 
a  jury.  I  had  then,  as  now,  but  little  practice 
in  criminal  causes,  my  business  lying  in  civil 
practice  almost  wholly.  I  had  associated  with 
me,  therefore,  the  best  counsel  that  the  city 
could  afford,  and  we  went  into  the  trial  without 
fear  for  the  result. 

I  need  not  pause  to  relate  the  careful  manner 
in  which  we  studied  our  jury.  Nor  did  we  oc- 
cupy more  than  one  day  in  the  labor  of  getting 
one.  The  first  pannel  answered  our  purpose, 
and  we  selected  twelve  men  whose  characters 
I  knew  thoroughly.  Three  of  them  were 
young  men,  the  stout  sons  of  farmers,  not  mar- 
ried, intelligent,  and  having  open  faces.  Three 
more  were  young  married  men,  whose  wives 
would  be  in  court.  The  remaining  six  were 
farmers  and  villagers,  with  intelligent  counte- 
nances and  clear  discernment.  One  of  them, 
however,  I  looked  to  with  more  interest  than 
any  of  the  others.  He  was  an  old  man,  of  large 
wealth  and  great  influence,  and,  I  felt  sure, 
would  have  more  influence  over  the  other  eleven 
than  any  one  of  them.  I  hesitated  for  some 
time  as  to  challenging  him,  but  learning  that 
he  had  within  the  three  months  previous  buried 
a  daughter,  a  sweet  child  of  ten  years  old,  and 
had  now  only  a  boy  of  eight,  the  son  of  his 
buried  wife,  whom  he  idolized  for  the  sake  of 
that  wife's  memory,  I  thought  no  more  of  chal- 
lenging him. 

The  court-room  was  crowded  to  the  utmost 
with  people  from  the  neighborhood,  and  as 
usual  in  the  country,  the  females  in  court  were 
many  more  than  the  males.  The  prisoner  was 
calm,  and  I  had  directed  him  to  assume  no 
countenance  whatever,  but  to  look  as  he  always 
had  to  me.  His  sister  was  beyond  all  descrip- 
tion beautiful,  and  her  face  had  no  need  to  be 
moulded  by  art  to  produce  an  effect.  Its  earn- 
estly beseeching  look,  as  her  eyes  met  the  eyes 
of  each  separate  juror,  was  a  plea  that  seemed 
irresistible.  I  never  saw  such  beauty  and 
agony  mingled  in  one  face.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered slowly  over  the  court-room,  from  judge  to 
jury,  and  then  toward  the  prosecuting  attorney, 
and  then  toward  us ;  and  then  as  they  rested  on 
her  brother,  who  sat  by  my  side,  a  mournful 


smile  fell  on  her  face,  and  at  times  her  deep 
blue  eyes  would  fill  with  tears,  and  she  would 
drop  her  veil  and  bow  down  her  head  in  her  utter 
desolation.  It  was  no  acting,  and  I  had  no 
wish  that  she  should  vary  her  conduct.  She 
was  a  nobie  girl,  and  had  her  brother's  high 
spirit.  Until  the  third  day  of  the  trial,  she  did 
not  know  or  think  that  anytliing  she  could  do 
would  help  him.  She  felt  utterly  useless  to 
him,  and  that  seemed  to  be  a  great  cause  of  her 
agony.  But  when  I  told  her  that  there  was  one 
man  on  the  jury  whom  she  could  move  to  her 
brother's  good,  she  sprang  at  the  idea,  and  I 
feared  her  earnestness  would  betray  all  my 
plan.  Yet  she  managed  it  coolly  and  to  perfec- 
tion. He  was  a  young  man  whom  I  had  reason 
to  think  somewhat  prejudiced  against  the  pris- 
oner. I  made  inquiries  as  to  iiis  character,  and 
found  that  he  was  well  educated,  but  disposed 
to  a  sort  of  misanthropy  which  had  made  him 
unpopular  in  the  village,  especially  among 
young  ladies.  I  thought  a  simple  incident 
might  avail,  and  tried  it.  The  next  morning  as 
the  jurors  were  coming  into  court,  Miss  Burritt 
rose  as  if  faint,  and  walked  towards  t]ie  door. 
As  she  met  this  young  man  her  foot  caught  in 
the  carpet,  and  she  would  have  fallen,  had  not 
his  hand  been  instantly  proffered  to  support  her. 
She  caught  it  and  regained  her  footing  grace- 
fully, and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  sad 
smile,  as  her  silvery  voice  murmured  in  a  broken 
but  musical  tone,  "  Thank  you — tliank  you, 
sir ;"  and  she  passed  on. 

It  was  enough.  I  was  sure  of  his  verdict 
when  I  saw  his  eye  rest  on  her  an  hour  after- 
ward, as  she  returned  to  court. 

Wlien  my  associate  counsel  rose  to  open,  the 
eyes  of  a))  the  crowd  in  the  court-room  were 
fixed  on  him.  His  argument  was  clear  and 
masterly.  Hinting,  at  first,  at  the  proof  to  be 
adduced  of  the  guilt  of  another,  he  proceeded  to 
state  the  prisoner's  history,  and  to  speak  of  the 
testimony  to  be  offered  in  regard  to  his  charac- 
ter. I  had  left  the  minds  of  most  of  the  jurors 
wholly  to  his  management,  and  his  coolness 
and  experience  soon  had  their  effect.  An  ex- 
change of  glances  between  some  of  them 
showed  that  his  words  were  telling,  and  before 
he  closed  I  was  satisfied  that  a  majority  were 
with  us.  We  then  proved  what  I  have  intima- 
ted, and  our  evidence  to  criminate  the  landlord 
was  astonishing.  It  was  clearly  a  surprise  to 
the  prosecuting  attorney,  as  well  as  all  present. 
We  proved  old  quarrels  with  the  murdered  man, 
tlireats,  and  actual  exchanges  of  blows.    And 


LEA^^:s  from  the  register  of  a  new-york  lawyer. 


213 


thei  his  own  anxiety  to  con\ict  the  prisoner, 
and  his  silence  until  weeks  after  the  murder, 
operated  strongly  against  him.  And  then  we 
surprised  oui^elves  by  pronng  by  his  own  son 
tliat  his  father  left  the  house  that  night,  (prob- 
ably to  follow  the  prisoner,  but  he  must  have 
lost  the  trace  of  him,)  and  did  not  return  till 
midnight  or  later.  The  fact  that  the  father  had 
concealed  this,  (fearing,  of  course,  that  suspi- 
cion might  attach  to  himself,)  operated  heavily 
against  him.  On  inquiry  being  made  for  him, 
we  replied  that  he  was  in  custody  of  the  sheriff, 
charged  with  this  murder  ;  and  on  being  brought 
into  court  he  was  so  confused,  and  explained 
his  absence  from  home  so  illy,  as  to  prejudice 
all  against  him. 

But  there  were  two  men  on  the  jury  whose 
faces  indicated  a  settled  determination  against 
the  prisoner  on  trial.  These  were,  the  old 
gentleman  I  have  mentioned  before,  and  one  of 
the  young  married  men.  I  ascertained  that 
the  latter  had  not  yet  been  married  a  month, 
and  his  wife  was  pointed  out  to  me  as  a  very 
pittty  girl  in  the  gallery,  who  occupied  the 
same  seat  every  day.  Toward  these  two  men 
I  determined  \^  direct  my  summing  up,  for 
on  them  I  was  assured  the  verdict  hung. 

I  asked  the  prisoner,  the  evening  after  the 
evidence  had  been  concluded,  whether  he  had 
ever  loved  a  woman.  His  reply  was,  in  a 
bitter  tone,  "  I  have — once."  "  Is  she  living  ?" 
"She  is."  Forgetting  his  tone  entirely,  and 
only  thinking  that  I  had  a  point  in  his  history 
now  to  use  to  good  effect,  I  went  into  court  the 
next  day  prepared  to  make  a  last  effort,  and 
feeling  confident  of  complete  success. 

It  has  perhaps  seemed  strange,  thus  far,  that 
Frank  Nicholson  has  not  appeared  at  all  in  the 
trial  of  a  man  for  the  murder  of  his  ser\'ant. 
His  father  was  in  court  every  day,  but  Frank 
was  on  the  south  side,  with  Carrie.  This  last 
morning,  however,  he  came  up  from  the  city 
with  letters,  &c.,  from  my  office,  and  walked 
into  court  with  me.  As  we  entered  the  court- 
room and  took  our  seats  at  the  table,  I  leaned 
my  head  forward  on  it,  and  for  an  instant  felt 
oppressed  with  a  tremendous  load.  I  had  not 
yet  learned  to  hold  a  fellow  man's  life  in  my 
hands  with  as  much  coolness  as  my  experienced 
associate.  He  sat  picking  his  teeth,  and  chat- 
ting coolly  and  laughing  with  the  prosecuting 
attorney.  As  I  raised  my  head  I  saw  Miss 
Burritt's  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  an  expression 
of  horror,  that  he  could  be  on  such  terms  with 
the  man  who  was  endeavoring  to  bang  her 


brother.  A  thousand  thoughts  flashed  through 
my  brain,  and  I  was  about  to  drop  my  head 
again,  when  I  saw  Frank's  eyes  fixed  on  tlie 
prisoner  with  an  expression  that  puzzled  me ; 
and  while  I  was  trying  to  solve  it,  the  Judge  on 
the  bench  said,  "  We  are  ready,  Mr.  Phillips," 
and  I  rose  to  sum  up  the  cause  for  tlie  defence. 
I  have  no  time  to  go  over  my  argument,  or 
to  give  you  any  idea  of  my  appeal,  which  was 
some  three  hours  in  length.  Ridiculing  the 
idea  of  condemning  a  man  to  death  upon  such 
evidence,  ridiculing  the  evidence  and  the  wit- 
nesses, taking  especial  care  to  present  to  the 
jury  the  weakness  of  testimony,  one  important 
link  in  which  rested  on  the  shape  of  the  sole  of 
a  boot  on  the  prisoner's  foot,  three  months  aft^r 
the  footprints  in  the  snow,  &-c.,  I  proceeded, 
for  two  hours  or  more,  urging  especially  the 
absence  of  all  motive  on  the  part  of  the  pris- 
oner, to  murder  this  ser\'ant  of  Mr.  Nicholson.  I 
then  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  old  man  of  whom  I 
have  spoken,  and  began  to  speak  of  the  prison- 
er's history ;  of  his  boyhood  in  the  sunny 
South  ;  of  his  bright  boyhood  and  that  fair  girl's 
childhood  with  him.  I  spoke  of  the  sports  of 
those  days ;  their  rambles  in  the  green  fields, 
listening  to  the  music  of  the  water-brooks,  and 
birds,  and  winds.  I  spoke  of  their  return  home 
at  night,  to  meet  their  mother's  holy  love  and 
hear  her  blessing.  I  described  a  scene  in  that 
sw^eet  girl's  childhood,  when  death  was  near 
her,  and  her  lips  were  parched  with  the  fever, 
and  her  little  heart  was  throbbing  wildly  like  a 
bird  fluttering  in  its  prison.  At  this  instant  I 
found  my  old  juror  was  listening  intently.  I 
described  a  scene  that  had  been  told  me  as 
taking  place  in  his  house,  two  years  before : 
the  brother  throwing  himself  on  her  bed,  and 
winding  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  dis- 
pelling the  fever  flush  with  his  balmy  kisses. 
The  old  man  wept  in  his  juror's  chair.  I  went 
on  to  say,  that  God  gave  back  that  sister  from 
the  grave's  verge,  to  bless  her  brother  with  her 
angel  love,  (she  had  left  the  court,  but  came 
in  again  heavily  veiled,  ten  minutes  after- 
ward;) and  that,  kneeling  with  her  fair  boy 
and  girl  beside  her,  that  mother  thanked  God 
with  choking  words,  that  God  heard  in  heaven, 
though  no  man  heard  them,  and  besought  Him 
to  keep  that  bond  of  love  forever  bright  between 
them  ;  to  keep  them  hand  in  hand  in  heavenly 
love  all  their  lives  long,  and  bring  them  both  to 
her  at  last.  Then  she  died — passed  away 
from  watch  and  ward  over  her  children ;  and, 
blessing  them  with  her  last  words  on  earth. 


214 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


left  them  to  their  old  father,  to  one  another,  and 
to  God.  That  mother's  voice  comes  to  them 
in  the  holy  sunlight  to-day  as  they  sit  yonder 
side  by  side,  perhaps,  for  the  last  time.  O 
God !  the  last  time !  Who  could  separate 
them  now ! 

Then  1  spoke  of  their  father,  who  was  now 
in  his  far-off  home,  utterly  ignorant  of  all  this 
liorrid  tale.  I  spoke  of  his  thoughts  of  those 
children,  his  pride  in  tliem,  his  treasuring  with 
idol  love  the  memory  of  their  sainted  mother. 
And  when  I  spoke  of  that  lonely  old  man,  the 
juror  I  was  addressing  all  this  to  sobbed  out 
once  aloud.  A  death-like  stillness  ensued  in 
the  court,  and  I  paused  an  instant,  for  that 
silence  was  eloquent.  I  then  went  on,  in  a 
low  tone,  to  speak  of  the  faithful  love  of  that 
brother  and  sister — they  were  all  in  all  to  one 
another.  Yet  two  had  been  admitted  to  that 
holy  bond,  and  now  four  hearts  throbbed  in 
agony,  awaiting  the  verdict  of  this  jury.  I 
spoke  of  the  prisoner's  love  in  low  tones  till  I 
caught  the  eye  of  the  recently-married  man,  and 
found  he  was  attending  to  every  word.  Then 
turning  from  him  I  caught  the  eye  of  his  pretty 
wife,  and  describing  the  scenes  of  their  love, 
the  flush  of  youthful  joy,  the  high  and  glorious 
hopes  which  they  had  cherished — "  Who  shall 
carry  to  her  the  tidings  of  this  day  ?  Who 
could  look  on  the  desolation  of  her  broken  heart  ? 
Look  at  yonder  gallery,  gentlemen  of  the  jury  : 
from  those  fair  faces  select  the  fairest;  and 
snppose  that  all  her  hopes,  her  joy,  her  heaven 
on  earth,  rest  on  one  to  whom  her  young  heart 
is  bound  in  love  that  springs  to  life  from  heaven. 
Bring  him  to  this  court-room^ — place  him  on 
yonder  seat — deliberately  convict  him  of  mur- 
der— hang  him.  Then  go  and  tell  her  young 
heart  that  the  night  of  its  desolation  has  come. 
Can  you  do  it  ?  Gentlemen,  the  heart  that  is 
capable  of  loving,  the  heart  that  could  win  the 


love  of  a  heart  underneath  as  pure,  as  inr^cent 
a  face  as  that  you  behold  yonder,  is  incapable 
of  the  guilt  of  such  a  crime  as  this  !" 

I  had  my  man  secured,  and  with  a  brief  close, 
sat  down.  I  have  omitted,  of  course,  the  whole 
argumentative  portion  of  my  defence,  and  dwelt 
simply  upon  the  means  to  which  we  at  times 
resort,  to  move  a  jury  to  think  with  us. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  rose  to  close  the 
case,  and  while  he  spoke,  Frank  Nicholson 
came  across  to  me  and  told  me  all  that  you  know. 
I  was  thunderstruck !  The  face  of  my  client 
changed  as  he  saw  Frank  speaking  with  me. 
Up  to  that  instant  it  had  been  calmly  the  same. 
I  rose,  and  urged  him  to  conceal  his  face.  He 
did  so.  An  hour  afterward  the  jury  brought  in 
a  verdict  of  not  guilty,  and  I  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  having  saved  from  the  gallows  as  great 
a  scoundrel  as  ever  went  unhung.  His  sister 
never  knew  his  guilt  until  six  months  after- 
wards, when  her  brother  died.  In  some  wild 
revel  he  had  burst  a  blood-vessel,  and  after 
lingering  a  few  days,  indited  a  letter  to  me, 
and  then  slept  the  deep  sleep  of  death.  He  had 
mistaken  the  servant  that  night  for  Frank,  and 
had  returned  to  the  country  to  carry  out  his 
fiendish  plans,  when  he  was  arrested.  He  was 
a  consummate  scoundrel,  and  the  world  was 
better  that  he  was  dead. 

My  register  has  a  pencil  mark  made  after  the 
notes  of  the  case,  "  James  Judson  ads.  Tlie 
People,"  dz,c.,  which  I  made  for  memory's 
sake,  thus:  "May  2d,  18—.  Frank  signed 
marriage  settlements  with  C.  W. ;"  and  an- 
other mark  thus  :  "  Md,  May  3d. ;"  which 
means,  that  Frank  and  Carrie  were  married. 

Years  have  passed  since  then,  and  now  soine 
time  when  you  are  passing  down  Nassau-st., 
you  may  happen  to  see  a  sign  thus  : — 

PHILLIPS  &,  NICHOLSON, 

COUNSELLORS  AT  LAW. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


215 


LEAF     II. 


MARY    SPRAQUE 


^  My  Dear  Phil  : — 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  call  at  the 
Mansion  House,  at  your  earliest  convenience, 
and  see  me  ?  I  r.eached  the  city  last  night,  at 
11  o'clock,  and  am  too  unwell  to  leave  my 
room.  If  you  can  call  and  spend  an  hour  with 
me  tliis  P.  M.,  I  will  esteem  it  a  great  favor,  as 
I  have  business  of  urgency  to  be  attended  to  ; 
which,  indeed,  has  brought  me  to  the  city. 

"Yours,  alway,  F.  S. 

"N.  Y.  C,  May  4th,  18—. 

"  P.  S.  Jeannie  is  with  me,  and  desires  her 
love,  &c.,  and  will  be  as  happy  to  see  you 
as  L  " 

The  above  note  was  thrown  upon  my  table 
at  a  moment  when  I  was  most  busily  engaged 
in  drafting*a  bill ;  but  I  pushed  aside  every- 
thing on  the  instant,  and  hastened  to  the  Man- 
sion House,  to  see  my  old  friend  and  his  beau- 
tiful and  lovely  wife.  We  had  been  boys  to- 
gether, and  when  I  left  home  for  college,  his 
father  doubted,  for  a  long  time,  whether  he 
should  or  should  not  send  him  to  Princeton  also ; 
but  concluded,  finally,  to  place  him  in  business 
in  the  city.  I  went  from  home,  and  heard  little 
from  Fred  Sprague  personally,  for  he  was  not 
much  of  a  letter-writer.  But  we  met  frequent- 
ly, and  always  with  no  slight  joy,  until  I  grad- 
uated. I  then  boarded  at  the  same  hotel  with 
him  in  the  city,  while  pursuing  my  studies,  and 
we  were,  of  course,  devoted  friends,  until  his 
father  removed  to  Buffalo,  and  the  son  went 
into  business  with  him. 

In  a  short  time  they  amassed  fortunes,  and 
Fred  married  a  cousin  of  my  own,  whom 
he  had  known  and  loved  from  babyhood. 
Through  her  I  now  more  frequently  heard 
from  him  than  formerly,  and  at  the  date  of 
the  note  which  heads  this  article,  we  had  not 
met  in  nearly  two  years,  if  I  now  remember 
aright ;  certainly  not  since  a  visit  I  had  made 
them  at  Buffalo,  some  time  previous. 


Time  had  changed  us  all,  in  many  respects. 
We  were  no  longer  the  gay,  laughter-loving 
youths  of  fifteen  years  before  ;  our  faces  were 
even  somewhat  wrinkled,  (Fred's  and  my  own, 
not  Jeannie's ;  hers  was  as  sunny  and  bright 
as  in  the  olden  time  ;)  and  we  had  both  strug- 
gled with  the  world  so  long  that  we  had  ac- 
quired much  of  its  formality,  if  not  some  of  its 
cold-hearted ness.  Yet  I  confess  to  a  very  sud- 
den start  of  joy  as  I  read  that  note,  and  a 
glance  of  pleasure  at  the  clock,  when  I  saw 
that  it  was  already  three  in  the  afternoon,  and 
I  might  expect  no  further  calls  of  importance 
that  day. 

In  ten  minutes  I  had  grasped  Fred's  hand, 
as  he  sat  in  a  large  chair,  before  a  grate,  (for 
it  was  a  chilly  day,  and  an  invalid  needed  fire 
even  in  May,)  and  inquired  for  Jeannie  and 
the  family.  Even  as  I  asked  after  her  she 
entered  the  room  ;  and  I  was  somewhat  aston- 
ished when  she  introduced  to  me  Miss  Sprague, 
a  young  lady  by  her  side — astonished,  I  say, 
inasmuch  as  I  remembered  her  as  a  child  of 
five  years  old,  the  daughter  of  Fred's  imcle. 
Fifteen  years  had  made  a  mar\-ellous  change  in 
her,  and  she  might  well  be  called  beautiful. 
She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  as  I  un- 
derstood, for  the  death  of  her  father.  After  a 
conversation  of  half  an  hour  the  ladies  left  the 
room  ;  and  Fred  proceeded  to  state  to  me  the 
business  upon  which  he  had  come  to  the 
city. 

And  here  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  pausing  a 
moment,  to  say,  that  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
of  the  sketches  I  may  give  from  my  memory, 
aided  by  my  register,  my  own  appearance  in 
the  story,  professionally  at  least,  will  not  be  of 
any  great  importance.  I  purpose  rather  giving 
histories  of  life  with  which  I  became  acquaint- 
ed, than  the  more  immediate  history  of  legal 
practice.  In  the  daily  pursuit  of  our  profes- 
sion a  thousand  scenes  are  opened  to  us  in  the 


21(5 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  liAWYER. 


volume  of  human  nature,  which  are,  as  it  were, 
mere  by-plays  in  the  scenes  which  most  con- 
cern the  lawyer.  Of  consequence,  I  may  Jbe 
led  to  write  a  story  out,  in  which  my  profession 
will  not  appear  at  all,  exceptinnf  as  I  became 
acquainted  with  ihe  facts  through  its  medium. 
Now  to  return  to  Fred's  statement,  which  was 
briefly  as  follows  : — 

"  My  father  had  only  one  brother,  as  you  know. 
He  died  two  months  ago,  leaving  his  wife 
and  daughter  surviving  him.  To  our  surprise, 
his  fortune,  supposed  to  be  very  large,  proved 
to  be  considerably  involved ;  and  his  family 
appeared  to  be  without  support.  In  an  exami- 
nation of  his  estate,  which  I  found  in  a  condi- 
tion of  almost  perfect  settlement,  I  was  glad  to 
find  it  capable  of  paying  all  his  debts,  and 
leaving  to  my  aunt  and  Mary,  at  least,  his 
name  not  dishonored. 

"  But,  in  his  will,  occurred  a  reference  to  a 
right  of  reversion,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
to  a  certain  property  here  in  New  York ;  and, 
on  making  further  inquiry,  I  ascertained  the 
facts  to  be  these  :  When  he  married,  his  wife 
had  a  certain  property  in  New- York,  or  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city,  secured  to  her  and  her 
heirs  forever.  So  at  least  1  understood  it,  but 
may  be  wrong,  as  I  know  little  of  legal  matters, 
and  do  not  even  know  whether  it  was  possible 
for  her  to  hold  such  property.  The  property 
was  of  little  value  at  that  time ;  and,  shortly 
after  her  marriage,  my  uncle  was  waited  on  by 
a  gentleman  from  New-York,  a  friend  of  his 
and  of  his  wife,  who  wished  to  purchase  this 
property  for  some  manufacturing  purposes. 
My  uncle  referred  him  to  my  aunt,  as  sole 
manager  of  her  own  property.  She  objected  to 
the  transfer  of  it,  saying  that  it  was  the  only 
memento  of  her  father  which  was  left  to  her. 
The  gentleman  urged  it  so  strongly,  that  she 
inquired  his  object  in  obtaining  it,  and  ascer- 
tained that  it  was  for  a  purpose  which  struck 
her  as  being  just  as  easily  attained  by  giving 
him  a  life  interest  in  the  property  ;  and  having 
some  absurd  notions  in  regard  to  keeping  land- 
ed property  in  the  family,  she  proposed  to  him 
to  take  a  lease  or  life  interest  in  the  land. 
After  some  reflection,  he  consented  to  this ; 
and  she  intrusted  it  to  him  to  have  all  the  pa- 
pers drawn,  and  when  they  were  ready  she 
executed  them,  supposing  she  had  given  him  a 
life  interest  in  tiie  land  ;  in  return  for  which 
she  received  a  small  matter  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  or  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars, 
which  probably  paid  for  her  next  ball  dress ; 


and  she  forgot  the  whole  matter.  The  next 
year  they  removed  to  Boston,  where  they  re- 
sided until  three  years  ago,  when  they  came  to 
BuflJalo. 

"  It  now  appears  that  this  gentleman— Jones 
was  his  name — died  within  five  years  past,  and 
his  heirs  have  taken  the  property,  which  I  am 
informed  is  now  worth  some  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  It  also  appears,  that  the  deed 
given  by  my  aunt  was  not,  as  she  supposed,  a 
mere  life  interest,  but  was  made  by  Jones, 
either  by  mistake  of  his  counsel,  or  whoever 
drew  the  deed,  or  by  an  intentional  fraud,  a 
quit-claim  to  the  property }  or,  as  I  think  it  is 
called,  a  deed  of  the  land  in  fee,  without  re- 
serve of  any  sort.  Had  she  really  intended  to 
convey  the  property  in  fee,  I  am  told  it  was  then 
worth  at  least  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  My  ob- 
ject in  coming  to  the  city  is  to  ascertain  whether 
I  cannot  in  some  manner  recover  this  property. 
Those  who  hold  it  now  are,  as  I  am  informed, 
immensely  wealthy,  aside  from  this  land,  and 
well  able  to  part  with  it,  or  pay  an  equivalent 
for  it.  There  is  a  friend  of  my  aunt's,  now  living 
in  New-York,  who  was  with  her  at  the  time 
she  made  the  agreement  with  Mr.  Jones ;  and 
who  was  with  her  also  the  next  day,  when  he 
called  witli  the  papers,  and  a  commissioner,  for 
her  execution  of  them  ;  and  who  will  testify,  if 
necessary,  that  the  understanding  was,  that 
she  was  merely  signing  a  life  lease,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort ;  for  many  playful  remarks 
were  made  about  it,  and  a  conversation  ensued 
on  entailments,  and  so  on." 

Thus  much  for  my  friend's  statement  of  the 
case.  It  was  very  clear,  and  I  made  but  few  in- 
quiries before  I  had  it  perfectly  in  my  head,  and 
was  forced  to  tell  him  that  the  prospect  was 
dark  for  any  recovery.  But  I  shall  not  weary 
my  reader  with  accounts  of  legal  proceedings 
instituted  in  the  case.  I  shall  now  give  him 
some  particulars  of  a  history  which  came  to 
my  knowledge,  entirely  separate  from  profes- 
sional duty.  I  may  as  well  say  that  part  of 
this  I  derived  from  a  conversation  with  my 
cousin  Jeannie,  and  the  rest  from  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  the  facts,  and  participation  in 
the  incidents, 

Mary  Sprague  was  a  queenly  girl.  There 
was  a  firmness  in  her  step,  that  convinced  one 
instantly  that  she  had  a  mind  unaccustomed  to 
hesitation.  She  was  tall,  and,  as  I  have  before 
remarked,  beautiful ;  but  there  was  a  shade  of 
sadness  on  her  face  when  I  met  her  in  New- 
York,  which  I  attributed  to  the  recent  death  of 


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217 


her  father.  It  was  partly  owing  to  this,  and 
partly  to  another  cause. 

Two  years  previously,  she  had  met  at  Niag- 
ara with  a  gentleman  from  New- York,  to  whom 
she  was  introduced  by  a  mutual  friend,  and 
who  became  one  of  a  party  which  remained  at 
the  Clifton  during  the  whole  season.  Moon- 
light strolls  on  that  west  bs^nk,  and  long  day 
rides  about  the  country,  threw  Mary  continu- 
ally in  the  way  of  Mr.  Whitney,  and  their 
minds  proved  remarkably  similar  in  tastes  and 
emotions.  If  he  was  worthy  of  her  he  must 
have  been  above  the  ordinary  run  of  young 
men  ;  for  she  was  far  above  the  medium  of  her 
sex  in  everything  that  could  ennoble  or  exalt 
the  female  character. 

In  brief,  then,  they  loved  one  another ;  and 
yet  parted,  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  without 
any  exchange  of  promises  or  vows.  Yet  they 
knew  well  their  position,  and  met  again  with 
mutual  joy,  in  the  winter,  in  the  gorgeous 
saloons  of  the  cit)',  where  Mary  spent  two 
months.  This  time  they  parted  with  an  expla- 
nation. It  was  understood  that  Whitney  was 
as  yet  unable  to  marry,  but  was  engaged  in  a 
promising  business,  in  which,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  his  father,  he  anticipated  speedy  suc- 
cess. So  they  parted  engaged;  and  a  mutual 
consent,  on  the  part  of  the  parents  of  each,  fol- 
lowed. In  this  position  they  remained,  ex- 
changing letters  weekly,  or  oflener,  until  the 
winter  previous  to  the  visit  of  my  friend  Fred 
to  the  city.  In  that  winter  a  gentletftan  in 
Buffalo  addressed  Mary,  and  begged  her  hand 
in  marriage.  She,  with  a  very  keen  percep- 
tion, satisfied  herself  that  his  designs  were  to 
marry  her  father's  heiress,  and  not  Mary 
Sprague,  and  coolly  and  quietly  dismissed  him. 
He  ascertained  the  cause  of  his  dismissal,  and 
her  engagement  to  Whitney ;  in  what  way  I 
know  not,  for  it  had  been  kept  very  secret.  He 
set  himself  to  work,  however,  to  circulate  re- 
ports injurious  to  his  rival ;  and,  even  at  that 
distance  from  New- York,  managed  to  convey 
to  Mr.  Sprague  most  foul  and  false  ideas  of 
Whitney's  character.  He  brought  means  to 
bear  upon  Mary,  and  caused  reports  to  reach 
her  ears  that  her  lover  was  a  celebrated  fortune- 
hunter,  and  had  boasted  of  his  success  with  the 
wealthy  Mr.  Sprague's  daughter,  in  Buffalo. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  she  placed  no  sort  of 
confidence  in  these  rumors,  but,  with  true  and 
holy  faith,  never  doubted  him.  She  wrote  all 
that  she  heard  to  him,  and  he  was  half  mad- 
dened by  it,  but  could  not  leave  the  city,  and 


was  forced  to  content  himself  with  repeatedly 
assuring  her,  in  his  letters,  by  a  thousand  varied 
protestations,  and  entreaties,  and  adjurations, 
that  he  loved  her,  and  her  only ;  and  then 
finally  assuring  her,  that  he  trusted  her  so 
faithfully,  that  he  could  not,  and  would  not, 
take  the  trouble  to  repeat  his  vows.  And  she 
believed  him,  wholly,  faithfully.  Oh,  noble 
heart !  There  be  sometimes  such  on  the  earth, 
but,  I  have  oftentimes  feared,  very  few. 

3Ir.  Sprague  died  suddenly,  and  the  news- 
papers announced,  three  weeks  afterward,  that 

the  wealthy  Mr.  S ,of  Buffalo,  who,  it  was 

supposed,  had  left  half  a  million,  had  died  insol- 
vent ;  and  his  family  had  given  up  their  estab- 
lishment, and  removed  to  the  residence  of  his 
brother. 

The  announcement  reached  New- York,  and 
from  the  day  it  was  published  Mary  had  not  a 
word  or  line  from  Whitney.  During  the  suc- 
ceeding four  weeks  she  wrote  again  and  again 
to  him,  and  received  no  answer.  Still  she  did 
not  yield  to  doubt,  nor  suffer  an  instant's  mis- 
trust of  him  to  enter  her  mind ;  but  had  fears, 
terrible  fears,  of  his  sickness  or  his  death.  She 
accompanied  her  cousin  to  New-York,  and  the 
morning  of  their  arrival,  dispatched  a  note  to 
his  place  of  business,  informing  him  of  her 
arrival,  of  the  probable  miscarriage  of  his  let- 
ters, and  begging  him,  if  he  were  sick,  to  let 
her  know  instantly  of  it.  She  was  waiting  a 
reply  to  this  note  when  I  saw  her. 

We  will  now  change  the  scene  of  our  story 
to  a  room  in  a  house  not  far  from  East  Broad- 
way, in  this  city.  The  date  is  one  week  later 
than  that  of  the  commencement  of  the  story. 
The  hour  is  twilight ;  the  room  a  sick  cham- 
ber ;  a  man  is  lying  on  the  bed,  with  vacant  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ceiling.  At  his  side  sits  a  hired 
nurse,  and  watches  closely  his  coimtenance 
until  his  eyes  close,  and  the  heavy  breathing 
speaks  of  sleep.  The  door,  leading  into  the 
next  room  stands  half  open,  and  now  opens 
wholly,  but  noiselessly  ;  and  a  lady,  young, 
and  very  beautiful,  crosses  the  room,  and  looks 
earnestly  at  the  sleeper,  till  her  blue  eyes 
fill  with  tears,  and  a  sob,  vainly  suppressed, 
breaks  from  her  lips.  But,  regaining  her  self- 
control,  she  turns  to  the  nurse,  and  asks  if 
there  has  been  any  change  within  the  few 
minutes  she  was  absent 

"  None,  Miss — only  he  opened  his  eyes." 
"  Did  he  !  It's  the  first  time  since  day  before 
yesterday."    As  she  spoke,  the  sleeper  turned 
restlessly,  and  awoke.    There  was  a  gleam  of 


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LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEVV-YORK  LAWYER. 


light  in  his  eyes,  as  he  opened  them,  that  spoke 
of  the  return  of  reason,  which  had  now  been 
many  weeks  absent  from  its  throne. 

"  Fanny,  is  that  you  ?  Where  am  I  ?  What 
has  been  the  matter  ?  Where  is  father  ?" 

"  Hush,  Edward,  don't  talk  ;  you  have  been 
very  sick — many  weeks.  Thank  God  !  thank 
God ;"  and  she  sunk  down  by  his  bed,  in  ex- 
haustion, but  drew  his  hand  to  hers,  and  pressed 
it  to  her  hps,  as  she  knelt  by  him.  A  sister's 
love  is  holy !  An  old  man  advanced  now  from 
the  next  room,  and  joined  in  the  joy  of  return- 
ing health,  as  they  all  fondly  imagined  the  new 
symptoms  indicated.  Instant  quiet  was  ordered ; 
but  the  sickr  man  (it  was  Edward  Whitney) 
demanded  of  his  sister,  what  had  been  heard 
from  Buffalo  since  his  sickness. 

"  Here  are  four  letters,"  replied  his  sister, 
"  and  a  note.  I  wrote  to  Mary  when  you  were 
first  taken  sick,  and  promised  to  write  as  long 
as  you  remained  so,  at  least  as  often  as  any 
change  took  place  ;  but  I  am  surprised  she  has 
not  written  to  me.  All  her  letters  are  directed 
to  you,  as  if  she  did  not  know  you  were  sick ; 
and  this  note  has  no  postmark.  I  have  written 
to  her  twice  since  my  first  letter,  but " 

"  The  note,  the  note — open  it.  Why  did  you 
not  open  all  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  would  not,  my  dear  brother  ; 
but  I  will  read  you  the  note,  if  you  wish." 

My  readers  will  know  the  contents  of  the 
note,  and  may  suppose  that  no  delay  was  had 
in  informing  Mary  of  his  critical  situation.  In 
an  hour  she  was  with  him,  and  for  weeks 
watched  by  his  side  while  he  slowly  recovered, 
or  seemed  to  recover.  It  was  soon  explained  that 
Fanny  had  misdirected  each  of  her  letters,  and 
they  doubtless  lay  dead  in  the  Buffalo  post- 
office.  Mary  had  never  known  Fanny  inti- 
mately, and  had  not  dared  to  write  to  her  in 
regard  to  her  brother,  for  she  was  not  sure  that 
she  knew  of  their  engagement. 

A  scene  of  hope  is  easily  changed  into  a 
scene  of  sadness.  The  physician  informed 
the  friends  of  Whitney,  that  his  disease  had 
assumed  a  new  phase  ;  that  he  might  live  some 
months,  or  even  some  years  ;  but  that  he  was 
liable  to  immediate  death.  The  blow  fell  heav- 
ily on  the  happy  group,  and  the  scene  in  that 
bed-chamber  was  a  solemn  one,  as  the  physi- 
cian announced  the  truth  to  them  all  together. 
For  an  instant  there  was  an  agony  in  all  their 
souls.  Tiie  father  bowed  his  head  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Fanny  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  physician, 
and  fell  back  fainting.    Mary,  who  sat  holding 


the  hand  of  him  she  loved  so  well,  pressed  it 
calmly,  and  he  calmly  returned  the  pressure. 
None  but  God  saw  the  wild  tide  of  sorrow  that 
rushed  across  those  high  hearts,  sweeping  be- 
fore it  the  fairest,  purest,  holiest  hopes  that 
had  ever  gladdened  their  beautiful  gardens. 
They  looked  to  one  another — one  long,  long 
look  of  love — and  then  to  God,  where  both  their 
trusts  were  resting.  It  was  but  an  instant  that 
passed  thus,  and  Mary  sprang  to  assist  the 
nurse  in  removing  Fanny, 

But  I  am  lingering  too  long  on  this  story, 
and  can  but  give  the  outlines  of  it.  That  same 
evening,  Edward  asked  Mary  to  be  his  wife 
without  delay,  and  she  referred  her  consent  to 
her  friends  for  approval. 

It  was  the  saddest  wedding  I  ever  attended. 
When,  two  weeks  after  this,  I  drew  an  ante- 
nuptial agreement,  having  reference  to  the 
wreck  of  her  father's  property,  for  Mary  and 
Edward  to  sign,  and  took  it  with  me  to  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Whitney,  Mary  refused  to  sign 
it.  She  said  that  if  she  had  one  farthing  of 
property  left  from  her  father's  estate,  it  should 
be  his,  not  hers.  In  vain  he  argued  that  he 
was  now  wealthy.  She  said  she  had  made  a 
vow,  when  she  once  heard  him  called  a  fortune- 
hunter,  that  with  her,  he  should  have  every 
cent  she  had  on  earth,  and  she  was  so  deter- 
mined. Having  drawn  the  papers  at  Mr. 
Whitney's  request,  I  now  took  the  liberty  of 
destroying  them,  and  they  were  married. 

It  would  now  be  in  accordance  with  good 
story-telling,  to  say  that  Whitney  recovered 
after  all  this ;  but  I  cannot.  I  will,  however, 
hasten  briefly  to  the  conclusion  of  my  history. 

I  made  a  very  thorough  investigation  of  the 
title  to  the  property,  which  has  been  mentioned 
before  in  this  account,  and  had  scarcely  com- 
pleted my  searches  preparatory  to  filing  a  bill 
in  chancery  against  the  holders  of  the  property, 
when  Mrs.  Sprague  died. 

This  affliction  to  Mary  was  not  so  great  as 
it  miglit  have  been.  Her  mother's  mind  was 
naturally  weak  and  frivolous,  and  since  the 
death  of  her  husband  had  been  much  more  so. 
Death  seemed  to  remove  her  from  a  life  in 
which  she  had  already  entered  the  incipient 
stages  of  insanity.  Within  the  next  year 
Whitney  died.  Previous  to  his  death,  I  hiul 
the  satisfaction  of  paying  into  his  hands  ovit 
seventy-five  thousand  dollars,  whicli  was  tlie 
fair  valuation  of  the  land,  which  had  become 
Mary's,  as  sole  heiress  of  her  mother's  property. 
I  was  not  obliged  to  proceed  in  equity  against 


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219 


the  heirs  of  Jones,  for  they  took  good  counsel, 
and  were  glad  to  find  as  honorable  a  man  as  ray 
friend  Fred  to  deal  witli,  as  executor  of  his  un- 
cle's estate.  They  paid  the  value  of  the  land, 
although,  had  we  proceeded,  we  might  have  re- 
covered the  land  together  with  all  the  buildings, 
&c.,  on  it,  which  would  have  made  the  prop- 
erty more  valuable  by  one  hundred  per  cent. 
I  spare  my  readers  the  account  of  legal  pro- 
ceedings, by  which  this  end  would  have  been 
brought  about.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  additional 
testimony  was  procured,  which  all  counsel 
agreed  was  sufficient  to  establish  our  claim. 

Long  used  to  look  for  the  hour  of  desolation, 
Mary  bore  up  nobly  when  it  came ;  and  after 
burying  her  husband,  set  herself  to  prepare 
to  meet  him  again  in  the  land  whither  she  knew 
he  had  gone.  Her  heart  kept  mournful  vigils 
over  tlie  memory  of  days  that  were  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. A  severe  cold  contracted  the  following 
winter,  resulted  in  consumption.  She  heard 
the  announcement  with  calmness,  and  I  have 
been  inclined  to  think,  with  joy.  The  physi- 
cians recommended  a  warmer  climate ;  and 
she,  willing  to  do  all  that  was  duty,  went  to 
Havana  and  passed  a  winter.  But  the  spring 
found  her  gradually  failing,  and  she  returned  to 
New-York. 

A  message  came  to  my  office  in  May,  just 
three  years  after  the  receipt  of  the  note  from 
Fred  Sprague,  with  which  I  commenced  this 
story.  It  was  a  note  brought  by  a  pilot,  whom 
I  had  known  in  an  admiralty  case,  and  was 
brief  and  startling.  A  trembling  band  had 
written  it  thus  : — 

"  Mr.  Phillips  : — I  have  reached  New- York 
again,  and  fear  I  am  dying  on  ship-board.    Can 
you  come  to  me  ?  The  man  will  tell  you  where    i 
I  am.  Mart  Whitsey." 

I  went  instantly  with  my  guide  to  the  foot 

of  Dover  st.,  where  the  brig was  lying, 

and   found   our  once   beautiful   Marv.     She 


smiled  when  she  saw  me,  and  said  in  a  clear 
low  voice, "  This  looks  sad,  does  it  not,  Mr.  Phil- 
lips ?  But  I  am  so  glad  I  shall  die  in  New- York, 
so  that  I  may  be  buried  by  him.  I  was  afraid 
tliat  I  should  die  at  sea  ;  and  I  prayed  God  to 
let  me  remain  away  from  Himself  and  Edward 
a  little  longer,  so  that  this  body  his  arm  has 
so  often  embraced,  might  sleep  by  his  side." 

She  was  removed  from  the  ship  to  the  resi- 
dence of  Fanny  Whitney's  uncle,  with  whom 
Fanny  and  her  father  now  resided.  Again 
my  professional  services  were  rendered  in  pre- 
paring a  will,  in  which  she  gave  all  her  prop- 
erty to  Fanny,  except  a  few  legacies  of  endear, 
ment. 

One  calm  spring  night,  she  was  lying  on  her 
lounge  sustained  by  pillows,  when  she  suddenly 
asked  Fanny  the  day  of  the  month.  •'  It  is  the 
thirtieth,"  said  she.  "  Fanny,  it  was  this  day 
the  doctor  told  us  he  must  die.  Do  you  re- 
member it  ?"  And  then  she  went  on  to  speak 
of  him,  and  then  of  heaven.  A  silence  ensued, 
and  she  rose  and  with  Fanny's  assistance 
walked  to  her  bed,  on  which  she  lay  awhile, 
and  then  spoke  in  a  low  whisper :  "  Fanny,  call 
father — I  am  dying."  Fanny  sprang  to  her 
father's  door.  He  had  not  yet  retired,  but  came 
into  the  room.  "  I  am  going  to  him,  fatlier.  He 
was  here  just  now — he  was  here,  and  looked  at 
-me,  and  his  lips  touched  my  forehead.  I  felt  them 
— it  was  no  dream.  Fanny,  dear  Fanny,  give 
me  a  kiss  to  take  to  him ;  and  you,  father,  kiss 
me.  Again,  Fanny — put  your  arm  around  my 
neck — so.  It's  dark,  dark — now  it's  light — 
oh !  how  light — he  is  here  again — he  speaks 
of  God,  of  Calvary,  of  heaven.  Yes,  yes,  dear 
one.  Let  my  coffin  touch  his,  father,  will  you 
not  ?  Again  that  glorious  vision — no,  no  vision 
— GJod — God!"  And  with  uplifted  hand  and 
gleaming  eye,  she  smiled  serenely  and  was 
gone. 

We  buried  her  by  him  as  she  wished,  and  in 
the  resun'ection  they  two  will  rise  together. 


LEAF    III.— THE     FATHER 


Joseph  Baker  had  adaughter  and  two  sons. 
The  youngest  son  was  his  pet.  The  other  chil- 
dren he  seemed  to  hate.  They  were  his  by  his 
first  wife.  She  had  died,  and,  some  said,  of  gi'ief. 
He  was  a  stern,  unfeeling  husband,  and  she  left 
him — left  him  with  those  two  children,  and  he 
hated  them.    He  had  married  again,  and  again 


his  wife  was  taken.  Her  child  he  loved  ex- 
actly in  proportion  as  be  hated  the  others.  Em- 
ma had  grown  to  be  a  beautiful  girl,  and  was  at 
the  head  of  his  household .  Her  brother  George 
was  her  only  companion,  rnd  neither  of  them 
had  ever  seen  their  fnther  ?ir"Op  on  them.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  they  hcto-ed  him  with 


220 


LEAVES   FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


the  lifeless  honor  due  to  a  parent  who  could  win 
no  love. 

Year  after  year  passed  on,  and  Joseph  Baker 
grew  gray  and  cold,  his  heart  harder,  his  hand 
heavier,  his  soul  more  lost  to  holy  memories. 
How  green  the  spring  once  was  to  him ! 
How  beautiful  the  summer!  How  pleasant 
the  golden  fruits  of  autumn !  And  now  he 
walked  out  when  the  blue  sky  of  the  spring 
morning  was  above  him,  heedless  of  sunshine 
and  air.  His  youngest  son,  now  twelve  years  A 
old,  was  growing  like  his  father.  The  boy  was 
like  the  shadow  of  the  man,  always  with  him, 
and  looking  coldly  on  Emma  and  on  George, 
even  as  his  father  would.  Few  words  were 
spoken  over  their  table,  when  they  gathered  at 
meals,  and  they  had  no  evening  fire  by  which 
they  sat  and  talked  of  the  by-gone  or  the  beau- 
tiful.   They  were  like  two  families. 

In  the  summer  of  18 — ,  I  escaped  for  a  fort- 
night from  office  duties,  and  accepted  the  invi- 
tation of  my  friend  and  client,  Mr.  Wheaton,  to 
visit  his  family  on  the  bank  of  the  Hudson, 
where  they  were  passing  the  summer  in  their 
elegant  house.  His  family  consisted  of  himself 
and  Mrs.  W.,  and  a  son  and  daughter.  His 
son  was  a  fine  fellow,  in  every  sense — a  capi- 
tal shot,  a  keen  hunter,  a  good  fisherman,  and 
an  elegantly  educated  man  of  twenty-three. 
His  daughter  was  a  beautiful  and  uncommonly 
interesting  lady  of  about  nineteen,  and  her 
brother's  chosen  ally  in  all  his  employments 
wliich  admitted  of  her  companionship.  They 
rode  and  walked  together,  sailed  together,  read 
together,  and  were  company  and  amusement 
the  one  always  for  the  other. 

The  second  evening  after  I  reached  their 
residence  we  were  all  seated  on  the  front 
piazza,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  river 
for  many  miles.  The  house  stood  on  a  point 
of  land  which  jutted  out  some  hundred  yards 
into  the  river.  At  about  a  mile  south  of  this 
spot  1  observed  a  fine-looking  place,  and  inquired 
its  owner's  name. 

"  Joseph  Baker,"  replied  Mr.  Wheaton. 

"  Joseph  Baker  ?"  I  repeated,  "  Joseph  Ba- 
ker ?  I  don't  remember  to  have  heard  the  name 
before.     Who  is  he  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him.  He  keeps  him- 
self very  close.  Harry  here  can  tell  you  more 
about  him." 

I  turned  to  Henry  for  a  reply  to  my  query, 
but  he  simply  said,  "  I  know  little  more  than 
father  does  of  them."  Miss  Wheaton  laughed, 
and  said : 


"  Mr.  Phillips,  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  Harry 
was  riding  on  horseback,  alone,  tlie  other  day, 
down  the  river.  He  had  not  done  me  the  honor 
to  ask  my  company,  and  thus  not  having  his 
standard  of  beauty  with  him,  he  was  more  read- 
ily led  to  admire  a  tall,  slim  maiden,  that  he 
met,  walking  alone  near  Mr.  Baker's  avenue 
gate.  Considerably  interested  in  the  pale 
cheeks  and  heavenly  eyes  of  this  maiden,  (How 
could  you,  Harry,  when  mine  are  so  black — 
my  eyes,  I  mean — and  my  cheeks  so  red,  and 
myself  altogether  so  different  ?)  he  stopped  at 
the  little  tavern  at  the  cross  road,  and  asked 
who  she  was.  Atid,  lo  !  she  was  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  Baker ;  and  Mr.  Baker  has  two  sons,  as 
he  learned,  and  this  daughter,  and  has  been 
living  six  years  in  that  house,  and  we  never 
knew  them.  And  now  Harry  is  teasing  us 
continually  to  go  and  call  on  them,  and  mother 
is  ashamed  to  go  and  tell  them  we  never  heard 
of  them ;  and  so  we  are  in  a  quandary,  wishing 
to  oblige  Harry,  but  not  wishing  to  compromise 
ourselves." 

Providence  introduced  them  within  the  next 
hour.  We  had  seen  a  boat  sailing  up  the 
river,  some  two  hours  previously,  and  now  it 
was  returning.  But  as  it  came  off  the  point, 
the  wind  lulled  to  a  dead  calm.  The  boat  was 
too  large  for  one  man  to  row  against  the  tide, 
which  was  running  up ;  and  there  appeared 
but  one  man  in  it,  and  one  lady.  They  let  go 
their  anchor,  within  a  hundred  yards  of  Mr. 
Wheaton's  boat-house.  We  could  see,  with  a 
glass,  an  expression  of  disappointment  on  the 
face  of  the  lady ;  and  when  Henry  looked 
through  the  glass,  he  exclaimed,  "  Good,  good  ! 
How  fortunate !" 

"  What  now,  Harry  ?" 

"  Mr.  Phillips,  what  say  you  to  a  row  by 
moonlight  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart ;  but  which  way,  and 
wherefore  ?" 

"  Walk  down  here,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

So  we  walked  down  to  the  boat-house,  and 
while  he  arranged  the  oars,  &-c.,  he  explained 
that  the  lady  in  the  becalmed  boat  was  Miss 
Baker,  and  he  proposed  to  offer  them  the  use  of 
his  boat,  to  reach  home. 

"  A  good  idea,  my  boy." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Mr.  Phillips.  I'll  ask  them 
to  come  ashore,  and  say  I'll  send  them  down  in 
the  carriage.  That  will  introduce  them  to 
mother  and  Mary,  and  that  will  fix  the  whole 
trouble." 

"  Capital,  capital !"  said  I,  as  we  pushed  out 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  A  NEW-YORK  LAWYER. 


2-21 


toward  them.  A  few  strokes  brought  us  to 
their  boat,  and  Harry  introduced  himself  and 
then  me,  and  in  turn  we  were  presented  to  Mr. 
and  Miss  Baker.  The  former  was  George 
Baker,  now  about  seventeen.  They  gladly 
accepted  Harry's  invitation,  as  frankly  as  it 
was  offered,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wheaton,  and 
Mary,  were  no  less  delighted  than  surprised 
witli  their  visitors.  With  the  infonnal  freedom 
of  the  countrj',  and  especially  that  section  of 
it,  they  remained  something  more  than  an  hour 
on  the  piazza,  and  after  eating  some  fruit,  and 
drinking  a  cup  of  coffee,  they  rose  to  leave,  in- 
sisting on  walking  home,  but  at  length  yielded 
to  Mary  Wheaton's  urgent  entreaty  to  allow 
us  to  take  them  in  the  boat,  and  we  had  a 
moonlight  sail  on  the  glorious  Hudson.  You 
may  date  from  that  night  the  love  of  Harry 
Wheaton  for  Emma  Baker. 

But  the  course  of  true  love  ran  no  smoother 
in  their  case  than  in  Romeo's.  I  could  not 
understand  the  cause  of  Joseph  Baker's  opposi- 
tion to  Emma's  marriage  with  Wheaton,  until 
after  the  lapse  of  two  years.  When  Mr. 
Wheaton,  Sen.,  called  on  him  to  open  the  mat- 
ter, he  met  a  brief,  rude,  and  decided  negative. 
No  explanation  was  given,  nor  could  he  obtain 
one  ;  but  becoming  excited,  in  his  turn,  at  the 
roughness  of  a  man  with  whom  he  had  held  no 
intercourse,  farther  than  to  bow  when  they  met 
in  the  road,  he  used  as  high  words,  though  not 
so  roughly,  as  Baker ;  and  they  separated,  hav- 
ing decidedly  marred  the  prospect  of  a  union 
between  their  children.  From  that  time,  Emma 
Baker  was  forbidden  to  receive  Harry,  and  he 
met  a  closed  door  when  he  next  called.  They 
contrived  meetings,  however,  through  the  as- 
sistance of  Mary,  and  continued  to  love  hope- 
fully, until  better  times. 

At  about  a  year  from  this  time,  a  gentleman 
entered  my  office,  one  morning,  and  introduced 
himself  as  "  Mr.  Baker."  He  wished  me  to 
draw  his  will,  and  I  took  minutes  of  liis  desires 
in  that  respect.  It  was  not  until  he  named 
property  on  the  Hudson,  in  his  enumeration, 
that  I  found  out  who  he  was,  and  did  not  then 
intimate  to  him  that  I  had  ever  heard  of  him. 
His  will  de\ised  property  to  the  value  of  some 
fifty  thousand  dollars  to  his  daughter  Emma, 
provided  she  remained  unmarried,  and  the  same 
amount  to  his  son  George,  on  the  same  condi- 
tion. But  if  they  married,  then  the  property 
was  to  go  to  his  son  Joseph,  to  whom  the  re- 
mainder (its  value  being  over  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars)  was  devised. 


I  drew  the  will,  and  he  signed  it.  These 
were  the  main  features  of  it.  It  was  deposited 
in  my  safe,  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

Within  the  year,  I  saw  Harry  Wheaton.  He 
told  me  that  George  Baker  had  died,  and  that 
Emma  was  now  very  lonely.  She  had  been 
sick,  very  sick.  He  had  not  seen  her  in  three 
months  then,  but  there  were  strange  rumors  of 
her  father's  unkindness.  Poor  girl!  The 
only  companion  she  had  on  earth  was  gone, 
and  her  home  might  well  be  desolate. 

It  was  not  six  months  after  this,  that  Mr. 
Baker  died.  God  forbid  that  my  death-bed 
should  be  like  his  !  It  was  in  the  night  that 
the  destroyer  came.  He  was  alone,  and  alone 
he  grappled  with  his  agony.  Who  can  tell 
what  visions  were  his  then  ?  Who  can  tell 
what  strength  was  his  to  pray  ?  The  thousand 
petty  sins,  the  giant  crimes,  grown  big  by  years 
of  gloating  over  them,  and  magnified  ten-fold 
by  a  remorseful  memory,  were  there.  His 
tyrannous  wrongs,  his  grinding  hardness,  the 
cold-heartedness  of  half  a  century,  a  lifetime, 
all  were  with  him.  Mayhap  other,  holier  vis- 
ions maddened  him.  The  mild  eyes  of  his 
last  and  best-loved  wife,  her  angel  eyes,  looked 
on  him  in  the  gloom.  The  patient  smile  of 
his  sweet  daughter  haunted  him.  He  strove 
to  fly,  and  could  not ;  he  struggled,  but  those 
heavy  sins  weighed  him  down.  He  wanted  to 
shriek,  but  the  phantom  of  a  hideous  wrong 
pressed  its  cold  hand  on  his  mouth,  and  he  was 
dumb.  He  would  raise  his  hands,  but  George 
held  them  down.  He  would  pray,  but  his 
murdered  wife  stood  between  him  and  God. 
He  would  look  to  heaven  then,  but  even  as 
he  strove  to  look,  a  horrible  memory  inter- 
posed, and  a  shudder  ran  over  him,  and  he  was 
dead.  - 

A  note  in  his  desk  informed  them  where  his 
will  was,  and  I  was  sent  for.  I  went,  and 
read  it  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter  and  son, 
and  the  executors  named  in  it ;  and  that  daugh- 
ter blushed  for  the  memory  of  such  a  father. 
As  I  finished  the  reading,  I  saw  her  rise  and 
walk  into  the  next  room,  with  a  calm  smile.  I 
followed  her. 

"  Miss  Baker "  I  commenced. 

"  Mrs.  Wheaton,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  in- 
terrupting me. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  I  stammered ;  "  but  when 
were  you  married  ?" 

"  About  tliree  months  ago  ;  did  you  not  hear 
of  it  ?  My  father,  you  remember,  opposed  our 
marriage.    His  usage  "of  me  after  George's 


222 


THE    ROMAN     CHILDREN. 


death  became  such  as  to  absolve  me  from  all 
duty  as  a  child,  and  I  accepted  an  asylum  at 
Mr.  VVheaton's.  Harry  is  now  waiting  in  the 
carriage,  outside.  He  would  not  come  into  the 
house." 

I  found,  on  subsequent  inquiry,  that  her 
father  had  indeed  absolved  Jier  from  her  duty 
under  the  fifth  commandment.  My  own  mind 
is  firm  in  the  belief  that  only  the  utmost  wrong 
will  justify  a  child  in  disobedience.  But  it  was 
clearly  the  object  of  Mr.  Baker  to  kill  his 
daugiiter.  My  readers  will  regard  this  as  an 
awful  phase  of  human  nature.  It  was  so. 
The  love  of  gold  will  ruin  the  noblest  soul. 
I  will  now  explain  briefly  the  causes  of  this 
hatred  of  Baker  towards  his  children. 

I  was  investigating  the  title  to  a  piece  of 
property  in  New  York,  when  I  came  across  a 
will  of  one  Stephen  Granby,  which  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  read.  To  my  surprise,  it  was  the 
will  of  the  father  of  Joseph  Baker's  first  wife, 
and  its  contents  were  astounding.  He  devised 
a  large  amount  of  property,  naming  and  de- 
scribing it  so  that  I  recognized  the  very  prop- 
erty devised  by  the  will  of  Baker,  who  had  died 
only  some  six  months  previously,  to  Emma 
Granby  Baker,  wife  of  Joseph  Baker,  during  her 
lifetime  ;  at  her  death,  to  go  to  her  eldest  son. 

The  whole  truth  flashed  across  my  mind. 
Baker  had  married  Emma  Granby  for  her 
money,  and  was  enraged  to  find  himself  with 
only  a  life-interest  in  a  large  realty.  He  had 
undoubtedly  tried  to  influence  her  father  to  give 
him  entire  control  of  this  property,  and  in  his 
disappointment  had  resolved  to  persecute  her 
and  her  children.  He  married  again,  and  by 
some  strange  perversity  of  mind,  his  whole  life^  ; 
seemed  bound  up  in  the  son  of  his  second  wife, 
whom  he  loved  just  in  proportion  as  he  hated 
Emma  and  George.  On  the  death  of  his  first 
wife,  the  property,  of  course,  became  George's. 


The  father  then  conceived  a  plan  of  defrauding 
his  infant  son,  which  he  was  strengthened  in 
by  his  subsequent  marriage,  and  the  birth  of  a 
son  whom  he  could  love.  Concealing  entirely 
from  the  world  and  from  his  children  the  true 
condition  of  his  property,  and  being  wholfy 
ignorant  of  the  most  common  matters  in  legal 
practice,  he  fancied  that  seventeen  years  of 
possession  in  this  manner  had  destroyed  all  pos- 
sibility of  discovery. 

I  imagine,  that  on  the  death  of  George, 
which  event  he  had  always  been  anxious  for, 
he  thought  that,  as  heir-at-law  of  his  son,  he 
had  now  a  perfect  right  to  the  disposal  of  the 
property.  But  under  the  statute,  which  is 
a  common  law  rule  reduced  to  a  statute,  Emma 
had  the  right  of  reversion  ;  and  the  bill  which 
we  filed  in  the  case  had  a  speedy  issue,  and, 
without  difficulty  or  delay,  was  brought  to  a 
decree.  The  son  Joseph  had  still,  under  the 
will,  a  very  respectable  property.  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  passing  many  summer  weeks 
with  my  friend  Wheaton  and  his  family,  in  the 
same  house  which  was  the  scene  of  Emma's 
trials. 

My  readers  may  suppose  that  the  character 
of  Joseph  Baker  is  overdrawn,  and  that  none 
such  exist ;  but  I  can  assure  them  that  it  is  a 
mild  phase  of  humanity,  compared  with  some  I 
have  seen  in  my  practice.  Within  the  week 
last  past  I  have  seen  an  instance,  in  which  a 
husband,  who  had  loved  in  her  girlhood,  and 
married  in  youth  and  beauty  and  loveliness,  a 
beautiful  daughter  of  wealthy  parents,  who  had 
proved  false,  and  fled  with  another,  sell,  actu- 
tually  sell  her  to  her  second  lover,  for  gold ! — 
consenting  to  keep  silence  on  the  subject,  for  a 
consideration,  and  giving  a  release,  in  full  of  all 
demands,  of  whatever  nature — a  printed  blank, 
filled  out — which  might  be  styled  the  bill  of  sale 
of  his  once  worshipped  wife ! 


fiaig  m(DMiAM  (BiEiinLiiDiaigM, 


Amid  all  tho  charms  of  Italy,  and  they  are 
many  and  potent,  few  more  powerfully  excite 
the  admiration  of  the  artist  than  the  groups  of 
youth  and  children  be  meets  with  in  that  land 


where  the  sun  shines  all  day,  and  retires  at 
night  with  a  promise  of  shining  again  on  the 
morrow.  But  it  is  not  in  the  cities  where  we 
see  the  real  laughing  phenomena  of  Italy — not 


THE  ROMAN     CHIIDREN. 


223 


in  Rome,  where  they,  meagre  and  haggard, 
question  you  about  quattrini  in  the  name  of 
some  holy  martyr ;  nor  at  Florence,  where, 
with  sickly  complexions,  they  boldly  ask  for  a 
paolo  for  the  poor  blind,  for  assuredly  there  is 
no  city  in  the  world  where  there  are  so  many 
whose  eyesight  has  been  destroyed  by  excess 
of  light ;  as  if  the  sacrifice  exacted  by'the 
glorious  sun  of  that  luxuriant  land  was — that 
the  victim  should  not  "again  look  upon  him. 
The  subject  of  the  engraving  is  one  of  those 
happy  groups  to  be  met  with,  not  in  the  cities, 
but  in  the  by-ways ;  and  the  artist  has  most 
faithfully  pictured  the  character  of  Italian  chil- 
dren of  the  age  represented.  In  the  cities,  the 
picturesque  lies  in  portions  of  the  cities  them- 
selves ;  but  in  the  country,  the  picturesque  of 
the  landscape  is  far  outdone  by  that  of  the 
inhabitants,  and  of  those  the  children  are  most 
moving  to  the  painter's  heart.  They  live  in 
the  air  and  grow  brown  and  ripen  in  the  sun  ; 
and  all  laugh  with  the  hearty  truth  of  genuine 
nature,  whether  they  prattle  in  thick  Neapolitan 
or  poetical  Tuscan  ;  in  short,  it  seems  that  as 
in  art  generally  no  picture  is  really  charming 
without  the  climax  of  female  beauty,  so  no 
picture,  descriptive  of  Italy,  is  perfect  without 
children.  It  cannot  be  surprising  that  the  cos- 
tumes of  Italy  are  so  captivating  to  the  eye  of 
the  painter.  Without  perambulating  the  coun- 
try, as  artists  necessarily  do,  the  best  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  an  assemblage  of  the  country 
people  occurs  in  Rome  upon  the  occasion  of 
the  celebration  of  particular  religious  ceremo- 
nies ;  and  then  it  is  that  the  pilgrims,  assem- 
bled from  various  districts,  present  the  most 
striking  characteristics  of  feature  and  costume. 
Those  considered  the  eminenti  among  them, 
wear  short  velvet  smallclothes,  w'aistcoat,  and 
round  jacket  of  the  same  material,  ornamented 
with  silver  buttons,  a  parti-colored  girdle,  and 
large  silver  buckles.  Their  ample  steeple 
hats  are  usually  ornamented  with  medals  and 
peacock's  feathers  ;  some  of  the  men  carry 
their  coquetry  so  far  as  to  wear  a  small  bou- 
quet in  their  hair.  White  stockings  are  indis- 
pensable, and  in  the  pocket  of  their  small- 
clothes, despite  the  police  regulations,  they 
carry  a  large  knife,  to  be  employed  as  occasion 
may  require — for  defence  or  revenge.      The 


dress  of  their  wives  is  yet  more  remarkable  : 
their  hair  is  dressed  with  a  silver  comb  of  mod- 
erate size,  and  often  very  large,  and  shaped  like 
a  diadem.  Their  short  gown  is  highly  orna- 
mented, and  their  petticoat,  which  is  always  of 
a  brilliant  color,  is  tastefully  ornamented  w-ith 
velvet  or  lace ;  their  apron  is  of  muslin,  elabo- 
rately embroidered,  and  large  shoes  of  red  or 
blue  velvet,  surcharged  with  silver  buckles  of 
extraordinary  size,  complete  the  female  cos- 
tume. Upon  certain  occasions  tliey  wear  men's 
hats,  ornamented  with  flowers,  plumes,  or  rib- 
bons, and  more  frequently  a  net-work  of  green 
silk  depending  from  behind,  like  a  purse. 

On  the  other  hand,  by  no  means  less  striking 
is  the  costume  of  the  neatherd.  If  we  would 
compare  the  child  of  the  neatherd  with  those 
presented  in  the  plate,  we  find  him  but  little 
changed  since  even  the  days  of  Hesiod.  He 
is  enveloped  in  a  sheep-skin,  and  his  feet  are 
covered  in  the  manner  of  those  of  the  sculp- 
tures of  the  Lower  Empire.  His  legs  are 
naked,  he  carries  a  sickle  under  his  girdle,  and 
his  head  is  covered  with  a  large  straw  hat  of 
domestic  manufacture;  place  but  a  kid  under 
his  arm,  and  we  are  at  once  reminded  of  Ho- 
mer, and  tempted  to  look  for  Ulysses'  dog. 

The  education  of  the  youth  of  the  Papal 
State  is  carefully  watched,  so  far  as  tliis  is 
practicable.  In  order  to  direct  them,  in  their 
amusements,  to  a  moral,  or  at  least  an  inno- 
cent end,  tliere  are  establishments  to  which 
young  people  voluntarily  repair,  where  every- 
thing is  provided  for  their  recreation.  There 
are  gardens  and  play-grounds,  in  which  there 
are  arenas  for  gymnastic  exercises,  and  where 
they  are  rewarded  with  distributions  of  fruit  or 
cakes.  Those  who  have  been  most  constant 
in  their  attendance  at  these  reunions  receive,  at 
certain  periods,  clothes,  books,  or  other  pre- 
miums suitable  to  their  age  and  condition.  It 
is  especially  about  the  period  of  the  carnival, 
in  the  month  of  October,  that  these  rewards  are 
distributed,  in  order  to  induce  their  attendance 
at  times  when  they  might  be  tempted  by  other 
games  less  rational.  Thus,  in  Rome,  parents 
contemplate  the  approach  of  these  festivals 
with  less  inquietude  than  they  are  accustomed 
to  be  regarded  in  other  countries  of  the  Conti- 
nent. 


2-24 


ADELAIDE. 


AUDHlLAIIlDIg. 


BY    ELIA. 


She  stole  into  our  hearts:  the  love  and  trust 
Of  a  sweet  guileless  infant  wins  its  way. 
E'en  to  the  inner  folds  of  many  a  heart 
That  seems  devoid  of  love  and  tenderness. 

Her  home  was  near  to  ours,  and  ere  the  suns 
Of  two  bright  summers  shone  upon  her  head, 
Or  she  could  lisp  the  first  familiar  words 
So  sweet  and  musical,  her  tiny  feet 
Learned  to  play  truant  from  her  father's  door. 
And  follow  on  the  little  winding  path 
That  led  to  ours.     How  oft  we  smiled  to  see 
The  little  culprit  slily  peep  behind, 
So  fearful  of  pursuit,  then  strain  each  nerve. 
And  clamber  up  the  rugged  steps,  to  spring 
To  our  embrace  and  nestle,  while  her  heart 
Quick  fluttered,  like  a  little  wild  bird  caged, 
In  her  small  bosom. 

Oft  from  mom  till  eve. 
Amused  with  quiet  plays  and  stories  told. 
She  seemed  too  happy  to  remember  home. 
And  gathered  closer  to  my  mother's  side 
Whene'er  she  heard  ii  little  brother's  voice 
Inquiring  for  the  lost  one  ;  hushed  she  shrank 
From  his  approach  and  6ager  grasp,  but  yet 
A  few  kind  words,  and  with  a  pleasant  smile 
And  parting  kiss  to  each,  she  homeward  turned 
With  a  light  step  again. 

Her  little  heart 
Was  touched  with  kind  and  generous  sympathy 
For  one,  a  pale  and  suffering  invalid, 
To  whom  sweet  salutations  first  were  given : 
If  resting  on  a  couch,  she  nestled  close 
And  laid  a  cheek  to  hersj  or  if  she  sat. 
Bird-like  upon  the  easy  chair  she  perched, 
And  gently  prattled  there  in  whispered  tones. 
Striving  with  all  her  winning  ways  to  please. 
If  o'er  that  face  pain  cast  a  shade,  she  gazed 
So  pitiful,  and  gently  soothed  with  kiss 
And  kind  caress ;  with  little  hand  in  hers 
She  tried  to  keep  her  tinkling  feet  in  pace 
With  those  slow  faltering  footsteps.    Happy  she 
If  to  her  special  trust  a  message  given 
From  the  sick  favorite's  lips ;  how  danced  her  eyes 
And  glowed  her  rosy  cheek,  as  oft  she  brought 
A  little  basket  freighted  with  a  gift 
"  For  poor  Minerva." 

Pleased  to  win  a  smile, 
.Sometimes  her  hand  well  filled  with  violets  crushed, 
Or  apron  full  of  dandelions  shed 
Into  her  lap,  was  love's  sweet  offering  made. 
Nor  sun  nor  shower  withheld  her;  oft  we  heard 
Her  Bweet  voice  callin/^  at  the  outer  door, 
And  took  her  in,  as  Noah  did  his  dove. 


With  a  glad  welcome,  when  the  bright  rain-drops 
Glittered  like  jewels  in  her  sunny  hair. 

If  round  the  board,  'twas  beautiful  to  see 
(For  all  untaught)  her  gentle  downcast  eye. 
And  small  hands  folded  with  a  reverent  air. 
While  over  all  a  blessing  was  implored. 

Thoughtful  beyond  her  years,  her  busy  tongue 
Plied  through  the  livelong  day  a  ceaseless  round 
Of  curious  questions  with  an  earnest  tone, 
For  which  't  would  puzzle  wiser  heads  than  ours, 
To  frame  an  answer  that  would  fitting  be 
To  bear  the  test  of  future  reference. 

But  most  of  all  she  loved  the  story  long; 
With  round  cheek  resting  on  her  dimpled  hand, 
And  fixed  and  earnest  gaze,  she  closely  pressed 
To  the  narrator's  side,  as  if  she  read 
Each  several  sentence  e'er  it  passed  the  lips. 
When  ran  the  tale  of  injury  or  wrong, 
Her  cheek  would  mantle  with  indignant  flush. 
And  deep  blue  eyes  flash  with  unwonted  fire  ; 
Then  as  the  theme  grew  tender,  swelling  tears 
Gam.e  forth  and  trembled  on  the  long  dark  fringe 
That  rested  on  her  cheek  ;  and  if  at  last 
All  ended  well,  a  bright  and  sunny  smile 
Broke  like  a  glad  beam  through  a  summer  shower. 
And  with  a  long  deep  breath,  her  burthened  heart 
Was  lightened  of  its  load ;  and  then  so  soft 
The  sweet  lips  whispered, "  I'ellsome  more,"  that  oft 
The  moments  were  to  long  hours  spun,  until 
The  weary  story-teller  found  the  task 
No  sinecure. 

If  e'er  on  those  she  loved. 
True  as  the  magnet  to  the  pole,  there  were 
A  shade  of  mischievous  aspersion  thrown. 
Or  raillery,  then  to  its  utmost  height 
Her  little  form  drew  up,  and  one  small  foot 
Was  firmly  planted,  while  with  gesture  warm 
Each  charge  against  a  dear  and  absent  friend 
Was  quickly  and  indignantly  repelled, 
W  hen  with  calm  brow  she  sought  her  play  again. 

Four  summers  now  have  smiled  upon  her  head ; 
Her  home  is  distant  now,  and  yet  she  comes, 
Though  at  long  intervals;  and  still  she  seems 
Almost  our  own,  for  she  is  very  dear. 
Oh !  that  the  trails  of  her  small  infancy 
Might  ever  flourish  there,  unchanged  by  aughl 
Of  chilling  influence  from  this  world  of  sin. 
May  He  who  reigns  above,  keep  that  dear  heart. 
E'en  us  a  garden,  from  the  nsxious  weeds 
Of  pride  and  selfishness,  that  else  will  root 
Within,  and  by  their  shadow  blight  the  tender  buds 
That  open  now  so  full  of  promise  fair. 


THE    ST.    REGIS    INDIANS. 


225 


iPiEiig  S!Po  mig©3s  irniDirAns. 


BY     THE     EDITOH. 


This  engraTing,  fiom  American  Scenes,  re- 
minds me  of  many  a  wild  bivouac  in  the  forest 
with  one  of  the  St.  Regis  tribe  of  Indians.  It 
is  not  my  design  to  give  a  history  of  the  tribe, 
which  is  now  nearly  extinct  The  relics  of  it 
are  mostly  in  Canada,  though  now  and  then 
one  may  be  found  around  the  lakes  of  northern 
New-York,  where  it  used  to  dwell.  Those 
vast  hunting  gromids,  and  lakes  and  rivers 
filled  with  the  most  delicious  trout,  were  once 
their  own.  But  they  have  met  the  doom  of  the 
red  man  of  tliis  continent — gradually  melted 
tiway  like  the  snows  of  spring.  Three  years 
go,  I  went  through  a  large  portion  of  the 
jathless  wilderness  which  lies  between  Lake 
Champlain  and  the  river  St.  Lawrence,  ex- 
tending northward  almost  to  the  Mohawk. 
Here  is  a  tract  about  four  hundred  miles  in 
circumference,  or  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
through,  either  way,  spanned  by  no  road — not 
even  a  path — and  navigated  by  no  boats  except 
those  of  tlie  hunter  or  adventurer.  There  are 
but  two  or  three  settlements  in  this  entire  re- 
gion, and  those  consisting  only  of  a  few  log 
huts,  surrounded  by  small  patches  of  cleared 
land.  Through  these  vast  solitudes,  made 
gloomier  by  lofty  mountains,  and  precipices, 
and  deep  gorges,  the  moose,  and  deer,  and 
panther,  and  bear,  and  wolf  stray  in  great 
numbers. 

At  the  outset  I  plunged  fifty  miles  into  the 
very  heart  of  this  vrildemess,  where  I  found 
one  of  the  St  Regis  tribe,  whom  I  immediately 
engaged  as  a  guide  and  companion.  He  was 
rather  short,  but  stoutly  built,  with  straight 
black  hair,  black  eyes,  and  that  grave,  almost 
solemn  expression,  so  peculiar  to  the  Indian. 
Taciturn  and  silent,  he  seldom  spoke  unless 
spoken  to,  while  his  laugh  never  ventured  be- 
yond a  smile.  Cool  and  prompt,  no  danger 
found  him  unprepared,  and  no  object  escaped 
the  searching  glance  of  his  keen  black  eye.  I 
never  shall  forget  the  first  night  we  camped 
out  together.  A  large  fire  had  been  built  in 
the  open  air,  and  we  lay  down  on  the  ground 


with  our  feet  to  it — our  only  covering  a  few 
strips  of  bark  that  leaned  against  a  horizontal 
pole,  which  we  had  placed  on  a  couple  of  up- 
right crotched  sticks.  Our  trusty  rifles  leaned 
against  ounrnde  shanty.  Our  boat  was  drawn 
up  on  the  lake  shore  below,  and  all  was  still 
and  solemn  around  us  as  the  majestic  pine 
trees,  through  whose  lofty  tops  not  a  breath  of 
air  was  straying.  The  smoke  of  our  camp 
fire  ciu-led  slowly  upward,  and  its  cheerful 
blaze  threw  into  striking  relief  tl)e  dark  trunks 
that  receded  away  into  the  night  like  the  col- 
umns of  a  boundless  cathedral.     Side  by  side, 

"  Like  brothers  true  and  tried," 
we  stretched  ourselves  out  before  the  fire,  and 
were  soon  lost  in  slumber.  About  midnight  I 
was  waked  by  the  chilliness  of  the  air,  and  lo, 
the  camp  fire  had  burnt  itself  nearly  out  A 
few  flickering  embers  still  threw  their  fitful 
light  on  the  swarthy  visage  of  my  sleeping 
companion,  and  I  gazed  on  his  manly  form 
stretched  there  on  the  leaves,  and  around  on 
the  g)oomy  scene,  with  new  and  strange  emo- 
tions. Suddenly  I  heard  a  low,  crackling 
sound,  like  that  of  an  animal  crushing  bones 
between  his  teeth.  It  came  from  a  thick  clump 
of  bushes  in  a  little  ravine  a  few  yards  distant 
Taking  my  rifle  in  my  hand,  I  crept  stealthily 
towards  the  spot,  when  I  found  that  what  I  had 
taken  for  a  bear  or  wolf  was  the  Indian's  dog, 
slowly  munching  the  head  of  a  deer  we  had 
killed  the  day  before.  I  turned  back  to  our 
camp  fire,  and  having  rekindled  a  cheerful 
blaze,  sat  down  and  gave  myself  up  to  musing. 
The  wind  had  risen,  and  the  tree-tops  were 
rustling  and  murmuring  overhead  ;  the  ripples 
of  the  lake  fell  on  the  beach  like  the  rattling  o!" 
a  silver  chain,  while  far  away  on  its  placid 
bosOTi  came,  at  intervals,  the  lone  and  lonely 
cry  of  the  loon.  The  luminous  stars  looked 
britrhtly  down — ^the  only  cheerful  objects  amid 
that  solitude.  I  crept  again  to  the  side  of  my 
Indian  friend,  and  was  soon  forgetful  of  alL 
Towards  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  sense 
of  sufibcation,  as  if  an  enormous  pressure  were 


226 


THE    ST.    REGIS    INDIANS. 


on  my  breast,  and  a  low  growl.  I  had  scarcely 
time  to  open  my  eyes,  before  the  Indian  was  on 
his  feet,  and  gazing  steadily  upon  me.  That 
low  growl  had  started  him  from  his  sleep  like 
a  peal  of  thunder.  His  dog  had  crawled  on 
my  breast,  and  with  his  huge  form  stretched 
upon  me  and  his  nose  close  to  my  mouth,  had 
uttered  the  growl  which  had  aroused  us  both. 
In  an  instant  I  heaved  him  from  my  body,  and 
was  on  my  feet.  "  What  does  this  mean  ?"  I 
exclaimed  to  the  Indian.  Without  changing  a 
muscle,  he  replied,  "  He  was  watching  you  ;  he 
scented  danger  near."  What  it  was  we  never 
discovered.  Day  was  breaking,  and  soon  the 
sound  of  our  axe  awoke  the  echoes  of  the 
forest,  as  we  began  to  prepare  for  breakfast. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint- 
ance. For  two  different  seasons  have  we 
threaded  tlie  forest  together,  and  a  truer  friend 
and  a  better  companion  I  never  found.  Re- 
epectful,  considerate,  and  kind,  he  in  his  silent 
way  did  everything  I  could  desire.  I  never  in 
all  my  intercourse  with  him  heard  him  use  a 
rough  expression  but  once,  and  that  was  when 
his  huge  dog,  jumping  from  a  rock  into  our 
frail  boat,  upset  it,  throwing  him  and  his  rifle 
into  the  lake. 

One  day  we  started  on  an  expedition  to  a 
beautiful  lake  I  had  never  visited.  Taking  a 
birch-bark  canoe,  we  paddled  some  ten  or 
twelve  miles  up  the  lake  on  which  we  had  been 
encamped,  and  entered  the  inlet.  Slowly  stem- 
ming the  stream,  we  made  our  way  through 
the  deep  forest,  until  suddenly  the  roar  of  a 
cataract  met  our  ears.  Soon  after,  its  white 
descending  waters  appeared  through  the  leaves, 
and  we  steered  for  the  shore.  Here  my  ftiith- 
ful  Indian  lifted  the  canoe  from  the  water,  and 
turning  it  over  his  head,  strode  through  the 
forest,  while  I  with  a  rifle  in  each  hand,  and 
the  camp  kettle  and  other  utensils  strung  over 
my  shoulders,  followed  after.  Ascending  be- 
yond the  cataract,  we  again  launched  our  frail 
craft,  and  toiled  on.  In  a  short  time  we  came 
to  a  succession  of  rapids  two  miles  in  length, 
around  which  we  were  compelled  to  carry  our 
canoe.  Thus  riding  in  our  little  vessel,  and 
letting  it  ride  us, 'we  proceeded,  until  at  lengtl), 
late  in  the  afternoon,  we  emerged  into  the  lake 
we  were  seeking.  It  was  a  glorious  afternoon ; 
the  Bun  was  bright  and  clear,  and  going  like 
a  monarch  to  his  rest  amid  the  purple  moun- 
tains that  towered  away  in  endless  succession 
in  the  heavens.  A  strong  west  wind  swept  the 
bosom  of  the  lake,  and  the  miniature  waves 


came  flowing  like  wreaths  of  gold  around  our 
boat.  Not  a  sign  of  human  civilization  was  to 
be  seen.  Mountains  of  green  folded  in  this 
beautiful  sheet  of  water,  while  little  green 
islands,  tufted  with  lofty  pine  trees,  dotted  it  in 
every  direction.  Nothing  disturbed  the  solitude 
of  the  scene  save  the  slow  flight  of  the  vulture, 
as  he  moved  lazily  over  our  heads,  or  the 
scream  of  the  fish-hawk  alarmed  for  its  young. 
At  length,  just  before  sundown,  we  went 
ashore,  and  pitched  our  camp  amid  a  clump  of 
dark  fir  trees.  Wearied  and  hungry  I  sat 
down  for  a  while,  and  then  asked  the  Indian  if 
we  could  not  get  some  trout  for  supper.  "  We 
can  try,"  he  replied ;  and  so  cutting  some  rude 
poles,  we  rigged  our  lines,  and  pushed  for  the 
inlet  to  the  lake.  As  we  were  proceeding 
slowly  along,  a  sudden  "  Hist !"  from  the  Indian 
made  me  drop  my  head.  "  Stop,"  said  he  ;  "  I 
see  a  deer  coming  out  to  feed  on  that  marsh 
yonder."  Nothing  but  his  head  had  yet  ap- 
peared, but  the  quick  eye  of  that  Indian  would 
have  detected  it,  if  only  an  ear  had  projected 
through  the  leaves.  "  Shoot  him,"  said  he. 
"  I  cannot,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  am  too  tired  to  hold 
my  rifle  steady — shoot  over  me."  In  a  moment 
his  rifle  was  to  his  shoulder,  and  as  suddenly 
dropped  again,  while  he  bent  almost  double  to 
conceal  himself.  With  his  eye  fixed  warily  on 
the  deer,  that  seemed  to  snuff  danger  in  the  air, 
he  rose  as  the  animal  commenced  feeding,  and 
then  as  it  lifted  its  head  he  would  drop  liis  own. 
At  length  he  seemed  satisfied  with  his  observa- 
tions, and,  standing  perfectly  erect,  he  drew  his 
rifle  to  his  shoulder,  where  it  rested  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  the  quick,  sharp  report  rung 
through  the  forest,  and  the  bullet  passed  directly 
over  my  head.  The  noble  deer  leaped  convul- 
sively into  the  air,  and,  wheeling,  darted  for  the 
woods.  The  Indian  had  shot  more  than  a 
hundred  yards  at  arm's  length,  and  standing 
upright  in  a  frail  bark  canoe.  On  rowing  to 
the  spot,  no  traces  of  the  deer  could  be  dis- 
covered. At  lengtii,  however,  the  quick  eye 
of  my  companion  detected  a  single  blood  spot 
on  a  spear  of  grass.  He  pointed  it  out  to  me, 
yet  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  I  could 
descry  it.  "  He  is  hit  hard,"  he  said,  "  or  he 
would  have  bled  more."  The  next  moment  ho 
was  lost  in  the  woods.  In  a  short  time  I  heard 
the  crack  of  his  rifle,  followed  by  a  slirill 
whistle,  and  on  hastening  to  the  spot  I  found 
the  noble  deer  stretched  in  death,  and  the  In- 
dian standing  over  him.  We  dragged  him  to 
the  boat,  and,  returning  to  camp,  soon  had  a 


THE  SUICIDE. 


'^27 


portion  of  him  roasting  on  the  coals.  That  was 
a  dark  and  gloomy  night ;  our  fire  went  out, 
and  the  drenching  rain  came  down,  and  the  fog 
from  the  lake  enveloped  us  in  its  thick  cover- 
ing, giving  to  the  solemn  fir  trees  a  sombre  and 
ghost-like  appearance. 

This  Indian  had  married  a  white  wife,  and  I 
spent  several  days  with  him  in  his  hut.  During 
my  stay,  his  aged  father,  one  of  tlie  oldest  of 
his  tribe,  visited  him.  With  his  daughter,  some 
twenty-two  years  of  age,  the  old  man,  now 
verging  on  ninety,  had  come  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  Canada  in  his  bark  canoe. 
His  daughter  paddled  tlie  boat  up  the  streams, 
carried  it  around  the  rapids,  built  the  camp  fire 
at  night,  cooked  the  venison,  and  accompanied 
him  in  all  his  hunting  and  fishing  expeditions. 
She  was  a  handsome  squavv,  and  her  long 
black  hair  fell  in  waving  tresses  far  below  her 
waist.  I  never  could  get  her  to  speak  to  me, 
not  even  to  answer  a  question  ;  but  she  would 
sit  and  talk  with  her  brother,  in  her  native 
tongue,  in  a  low  musical  tone  which  charmed 
me.  The  old  man's  head  was  covered  with  a 
mass  of  white  hair,  and  shook  constantly  with 
the  palsy.  He  would  sit  by  the  hour  and  mutter 
to  himself  in  French  and  Indian.  He  was  a 
large,  powerful  man,  but  the  sands  of  life  were 
well  nigh  run.  As  I  looked  upon  him,  I  could 
not  but  think  of  the  long  journey  he  had  per- 
formed through  the  wilderness — of  the  tender 
care  this  solitary  girl  had  taken  of  him — and 


of  the  affection  with  which  she  watched  over 
his  feeble  age.  The  eye  of  the  hunter  had 
waxed  dim,  and  the  muscular  arm  lost  its 
steadiness,  so  that  he  had  been  compelled  to 
change  his  trusty  rifle  for  the  fowling-piece. 
He  had  a  dog  with  him — half  dog  and  half 
wolf — which  was  the  quickest,  sprightest  ani- 
mal I  ever  saw.  His  motions  were  like  light- 
ning, and  when  he  leaped  to  your  caress,  so 
sudden  and  fierce  was  his  spring,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  about  to  tear  you  in  pieces. 

The  last  time  I  saw  this  strange  couple,  I 
met  them  on  a  lonely  lake  on  their  return 
journey  to  Canada.  The  old  man  sat  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe,  while  his  daughter,  bare- 
headed with  her  long  black  hair  filled  with  white 
water-lilies,  which  were  also  scattered  pro- 
fusely over  her  form,  paddled  the  frail  craft 
through  the  w'ater.  1  watched  them  as  they 
receded  in  the  distance,  with  emotions  of  pity 
and  admiration.  Some  night  that  old  hunter 
would  lie  down  by  his  camp  fire,  never  to  rise 
again,  and  that  young  Indian  girl  would  watch 
beside  him  alone.  Thus  in  the  still  forest  would 
she  see  him  die,  without  one  heart  to  sympa- 
thize with  her,  or  one  voice  to  cheer  her  soli- 
tude, then  drag  his  lifeless  form  to  the  canoe, 
and  seek  with  it  the  graves  of  her  tribe. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  last  look  I  had  of  that 
old  Fndian  and  his  daughter,  and  shall  long  re- 
member those  relics  of  the  St.  Regis  tribe. 


TPiaig  SiCriKDiiiDig. 


There  was  much  that  was  perplexing  to  his '  i 

physicians  in  the  case  of  Colonel  O n,  for    ^ 

many  years  of  his  life;  and  his  sudden  and  un- 
expected death,  at  the  age  of  fifty  years,  fell 
like  a  thunderbolt  upon  his  family  and  friends. 
A  sort  of  periodicity  in  his  illness  early  mani- 
fested itself,  though  at  long  intervals,  some- 
limes  of  about  three  months,  at  other  times  of 


double  that  length  of  time  ;  yet  he  was  never 
sick  for  more  than  a  few  days,  and  then  never 
so  as  to  be  confined  to  his  bed,  and  not  often  to 
his  house.  The  symptoms  of  this  periodical 
ailing  were  uniform  and  unvarying,  and  as  med- 
icines seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon  them"==-V 
fact  rendered  certain  by  the  experience  of  miny 
years — he  finally  desisted  from  all  attempts  to 


228 


THE  SUICIDE. 


be  relieved  in  this  way,  and  left  the  attacks  to 
take  their  own  course.  They  commenced 
when  he  was  about  tiiirty  years  old,  shortly 
after  he  was  married  ;  and  iiad  they  occurred  in 
a  woman,  they  would  have  received  the  title 
which  very  many  medical  practitioners  are  in  the 
habit  of  bestowing  upon  anomalous  complaints 
iti  that  sex,  or  tliose  which  they  can  find  no 
other  name  for — hysterics.  They  might  have 
even  called  them  by  that  name  in  some  men ; 

but  with  Colonel  O n  they  could  not  take 

that  liberty,  and  therefore  confessed  their  igno- 
rance, and  let  it  rest  so.  The  most  acute  read- 
ens  of  symptoms  might,  and  probably  would, 
have  been  obliged  to  do  the  same  thing.  He 
knew  what  ailed  him  and  could  have  settled  the 
question  for  them  at  once,  as  it  turned  out  in 
the  end  ;  but  this,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  he 
d  id  not  choose  to  do.  He  knew,  from  the  com- 
mencement, that  whatever  it  was,  it  was  be- 
yond the  reach  of  medical  skill,  but  preferred 
to  seem  to  be  utterly  ignorant  of  it,  and  to  leave 
his  medical  attendants  to  puzzle  their  brains 
and  exhaust  their  ingenuity  over  his  case  with- 
out even  giving  them  a  clue  to  it.  It  may  appear 
strange  to  some  that,  under  such  circumstances, 
while  twenty  years  were  passing  away,  nothing 
should  occur  to  excite  their  suspicions  that  he 
was  not  dealing  candidly  with  them.  But  to 
those  who  knew  him  there  was  nothing  strange 
about  it.  He  was  a  man  of  great  personal  dig- 
nity, enhanced  in  no  small  degree  by  his  re- 
puted wealth  and  splendid  style  of  living.  He 
was  candid  and  straightforward  in  all  business 
matters,  and  never  known  to  practice  even  the 
slightest  prevarication  upon  any  occasion.  So 
upright  a  man  could  not  be  suspected  without 
some  good  reasons,  and  these  he  was  cunning 
enough  to  never  suffer  to  appear. 

As  I  am  not  writing  a  medical  essay  for  the 
profession,  I  need  not  enumerate  the  symptoms 
of  his  case.  There  was  one,  however,  which 
may  be  mentioned  as  the  unvarying  precursor 
of  his  periodical  attacks,  and  which  always  ac- 
companied them  to  the  end.  This  was  an  ex- 
ceeding nervous  restlessness  and  uneasiness. 
lie  was  apparently  alarmed  at  the  least  sound. 
If  he  sat  down  for  a  few  moments  lie  would 
ptart  suddenly  from  his  chair  and  walk  rapidly 
about  his  room,  so  that  his  heavy  footfall — he 
was  a  large  man — seemed  to  shake  the  house  ; 
or  he  would  seize  his  hat,  and  thrusting  it  forci- 
bly on  his  head,  would  leave  the  house  and 
walk  hastily  to  his  place  of  business,  noticing 
no  one  by  the  way,  not  even  his  most  familiar 


acquaintances.  Here  he  would  not  remain  long, 
but  return  soon  in  the  same  hurried  and  ab- 
stracted manner.  The  same  thing  would  occur 
at  night  after  he  had  retired  to  bed,  where  he 
would  lie  turning  for  hours  in  nervous  sleep- 
lessness, or  spring  from  his  bed  and  pace  his 
room  hurriedly.  This  state,  I  said,  continued 
through  the  whole  period  of  each  attack,  but 
after  a  few  days  seemed  to  be  under  his  con- 
trol, so  that  by  a  strong  mastery  of  himself  be 
was  able  to  transact  business  with  the  utmost 
apparent  coolness  and  correctness.  The  end  of 
the  fit,  if  I  may  call  it  by  the  popular  appellation, 
was  always  sudden.  He  would  return  to  his 
house  after  an  absence  of  a  few  hours,  entirely 
free  from  all  his  symptoms.  For  the  last  few 
years  of  his  life  he  had  been  in  the  habit,  about 
the  time  of  the  crisis  in  the  attack,  of  going  to 
the  city  of ,  where  he  w^ould  remain  a  sin- 
gle day,  and  return  well. 

Do  I  describe  an  imaginary  disease  ?  I  am 
perfectly  conscious  that  it  may  appear  so  to 
many  of  my  readers,  and  yet  the  case  of  Col. 

O n  seemed  to  his  physicians,  and  to  me 

for  the  last  year  of  his  life,  during  which  I  at- 
tended him  at  times,  as  real  disease  as  any  1 
ever  saw.  The  knowledge  of  his  exact  condi- 
tion was  confined  mostly  to  his  family  and  his 
medical  advisers,  who  were  fur  a  long  time  dis- 
posed to  apprehend  some  form  of  derangement 
of  mind.  But  the  periodicity  of  the  attack,  and 
the  suddenness  and  entireness  of  its  close, 
leaving  him  cheerful  and  clear  in  mind,  after  a 
few  years  quieted  all  apprehensions  of  this 
kind,  and  they  felt  no  uneasiness  on  account  of 
it.  Indeed,  it  is  true,  that  towards  the  close  of 
his  life,  there  was  a  development  of  symptoms 
indicative  of  disease  of  the  heart,  and  his  com- 
plexion assumed  that  characteristic  appearance, 
which,  to  a  practiced  eye,  is  evidence  enough 
of  structural  lesion  of  that  organ.  But  this 
was  a  matter  entirely  of  recent  date,  and  not 
apparently  connected  with  anything  long  ante- 
cedent, although  the  physician  would  be  able 
to  trace  its  connection  with  his  previous  condi- 
tion should  I  give  a  full  account  of  his  symp- 
toms, and  more  especially  when  he  becomes 
acquainted  with  the  sequel. 

During  one  of  his  periodic  attacks,  which  oc- 
curred in  the  month  of  December,  18 — ,  in 
stepping  hurriedly  out  of  his  own  door,  one 
cold,  drizzling  morning,  he  slipped  on  the  icy 
step  and  fell.  lie  was  unable  to  rise,  and  upon 
being  assisted  into  the  house,  he  found  that  he 
had  received  a  severe  injury  in  his  ankle  joint. 


THE  SUICIDE. 


2-2'J 


I  was  sent  for,  and  when  I  arrived,  he  was 
chafing  furiously  at  the  accident,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  groaning  with  the  pain.  I  inquired 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  accident. 

*•  The  cursed  door-step,"  he  replied.  "  I  had 
but  set  my  foot  out  of  the  door  when  I  slipped, 
and  here  I  am,  laid  up  for — I  don't  know  how 
long.     And  just  at  this  time — it's  intolerable  !" 

"  What  is  intolerable  ?"  I  asked,  smiling ; « the 
pain  ?" 

"  No !"  said  he  furiously ;  "  the  accident.  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Doctor — I  did  not  mean  lo 
speak  so.  But  this  accident  is  so  unlucky — 
so  annoying,  just  at  this  juncture — and  you 
will  make  allowance  for  my  mood  just  now. 
There,  examine  the  injury,  and  tell  me  how 
long  you  think  it  is  going  to  lay  me  up." 

The  ankle  was  swollen  enormousl)',  and  in- 
tensely painful.  He  cringed  and  shrunk  as  I 
examined  it. 

"  It  is  not  out  of  joint,  Doctor  ?"  he  inquired. 

•*  No  ;  it  is  only  severely  sprained." 

"  Only  !  It  might  as  well  be  broken,  for  all 
the  consolation  that  affords.  And  how^  long 
must  I  sit  here  and  hold  my  foot  on  a  cushion, 
as  if  I  had  the  gout  ?" 

I  told  him  the  injury  was  more  tedious  than 
serious,  and  would  confine  him  to  the  house  for 
some  length  of  time.  He  received  the  infor- 
mation with  another  burst  of  rage,  and  added  : 

"  It  must  not  be.  I  must  go  to  town  on  the 
third  day  from  this,  and  you  must  get  me  ready 
if  possible  by  that  time.  If  you  cannot,  I  must 
have  some  one  who  can,  and  there's  the  end  of 
it." 

I  assured  him  that  he  might  send  for  all  the 
doctors  in  Christendom,  but  they  could  not  en- 
able him  to  walk  on  that  limb  in  three  days. 
He  again  apologized  for  his  incivility — cursed 
his  foot — plead  the  annoyance  of  the  accident 
as  an  excuse  for  his  rage,  and  at  the  same  time 
seemed  to  feel  perfectly  conscious  that  there 
was  no  excuse  at  all  for  it.  I  bandaged  his 
ankle,  and  prepared  the  proper  applications,  and 
went  home. 

I  make  no  pretensions  to  extraordinary  acute- 
ness  in  the  detection  of  disease,  and  I  acknowl- 
edge cindidly  that  I  was  puzzled  and  at  a  loss 

to  account  for  the  condition  of  Col.  O n. 

At  first  I  was  inclined  to  attribute  it  to  disorder 
of  intellect,  but  at  length  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  I  was  at  fault  here.  If  it  had  occur- 
red but  once  or  twice,  I  might  have  considered 
it  some  mere  effect  of  trouble  or  anxiety  of 
mind.     But  he  was,  by  reputation,  vastly  rich, 


J  and  under  no  embarrassments.  For  many  years 
he  had  relinquished  the  business  in  which  he 
had  been  employed,  and  recently  his  only  care 
was  in  the  management  of  the  only  bank  in 
the  place,  as  president,  and  that  institution  was 
in  a  flourishing  and  prosperous  condition. 
There  was  nothing  then  to  furnish  a  clue  to 
his  affliction.  I  then  looked  for  disorder  of  the 
liver — then  of  the  stomach — and  last  of  all, 
fixed  upon  the  spine  as  affording  the  safest 
ground  upon  which  to  rest.  This  final  conclu- 
sion was  strengthened  by  the  affection  of  his 
heart,  which  was  becoming  more  and  more 
manifest. 

I  made  my  first  call,  the  next  morning,  upon 

Col.  O n.     I  found  him  again  in  a  furious 

rage.  His  rest  through  thp  night,  and  the  ap- 
plications to  his  foot,  had  produced  almost  entire 
relief  from  the  pain,  and  thinking  himself  nearly 
well,  he  had  stepped  carelessly  out  of  bed  and 
suffered  his  whole  weight  to  fall  upon  the  in- 
jured limb.  A  pang  of  excruciating  pain  made 
him  suddenly  and  forcibly  conscious  of  his 
mistake,  and  raging  with  the  agony  and  disap- 
pointment he  sunk  back  upon  his  bed,  and  spent 
his  violence  in  groans  and  curses  at  his  attend- 
ants. He  was  always  a  profane  man,  and  this 
trait  in  his  character  had  now  full  opportunity 
to  display  itself  under  the  new  stimulus.  Upon 
my  arrival  he  turned  the  whole  torrent  of  his 
spite  upon  me.  I  heard  him  in  patience  till  he 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  his  stock  of  oaths 
and  reproaches,  and  then,  taking  my  hat,  coolly 
bade  him  good  morning  and  left  the  room.  As 
I  was  stepping  into  my  carriage,  a  servant 

came  out  in  great  haste,  and  ea'd  Col.  O n 

wished  me  to  come  back.  I  refused,  and 
ordered  the  boy  to  drive  on,  but  the  man  held 
on  to  the  step,  and  insisted  upon  my  return  : 
"  The  Colonel  begged  it  of  me,  if  only  for  one 
minute." 

I  alighted  again  and  went  in  to  him,  but  this 
time  with  a  serious,  determined  face,  and  with- 
out removing  either  my  hat  or  gloves.     I  found 

a  different   man  in  Col.   O n.     He   was  ^ 

covered  with  confusion  and  shame. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  you.  Doctor  ?"  he  be- 
gan. "  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  I  was  wrong 
— grossly,  insultingly  wrong — to  address  you  as 
I  did.  I  will  not  plead  my  condition  and  annoy- 
ance as  any  palliation  of  my  offence.  I  feel 
that  there  is  no  excuse.  But  you  must  not 
desert  me  now,  and  leave  me  in  this  condi- 


tion." 
«  Col.  O- 


-11,"  said  I  slowly,  and  looking 


230 


THE  SUICIDE. 


him  calmly  and  steadily  in  the  face,  "  I  will  not 
suffer  any  man  to  use  to  me  the  abusive  lan- 
guage I  have  just  heard  from  you.  My 
manhood — my  profession — my  character,  well 
known  to  yourself,  all  forbid  it.  And  more 
than  all,  sir,  I  am  a  Christian,  and  no  man  shall 
utter  in  my  presence  such  gross  profanity  and 
blasphemy  as  your  lips  have  just  uttered,  un- 
rebuked.     I  again  bid  you  good  morning,  sir." 

I  spoke  coolly  and  to  the  man. 

"  Stay,  Doctor,"  he  exclaimed,  as  I  turned  to 
leave  the  room ;  "  stay,  if  but  one  moment 
longer.  Hear  what  I  have  to  say.  What  you 
say  is  right.  I  acknowledge  it.  I  deserve  the 
reproof,  and  if  any  apology  could  rectify  the 
outrage,  I  would  willingly  offer  it.  But  I  feel 
that  it  cannot.  I  throw  myself  upon  your 
generosity  and  compassion.  If  you  leave  me 
in  this  way  I  cannot  blame  you.  and  yet  I  am 
a  suffering  man  and  need  your  kindness  and 
skill.  You  shall  hear  no  syllable  from  me 
henceforth  to  wound  you.  I  pledge  you  my 
word  for  it.  Now  let  me  trust  to  your  forbear- 
ance and  pardon." 

I  remained.  The  injured  joint  was  still 
swollen  as  much  as  ever,  and  as  painful.  What 
slight  benefit  might  have  possibly  been  received 
through  the  night — and  at  most  it  must  have 
been  very  small — had  been  entirely  destroyed 
by  the  inadvertency  of  the  morning.  Although 
the  patient  controlled  himself  and  successfully 
suppressed  all  exhibitions  of  temper,  yet  he  soon 
became  restless  and  uneasy.  His  general  dis- 
ease was  beginning  to  resume  its  mastery. 
This,  however,  I  left  to  its  own  course,  satisfied 
that  a  few  days  would  set  everything  right,  and 
restore  him  to  his  usual  equanimity  of  mind. 

"  You  will  call  to-morrow,"  said  he,  as  I  rose 
to  depart.  "  I  want  you  to  drive  on  the  cure  as 
fast  as  possible,  for  if  such  a  thing  be  within 
the  reach  of  skill  and  persevering  appliances, 
I  must  be  ready  to  go  to  the  city  the  morning 
of  the  day  after.  And  forget.  Doctor,  I  beseech 
yon,  my  offence  of  this  morning." 
^  I  visited  him  the  next  morning,  and  found 
him  in  much  the  same  condition  ;  his  ankle  so 
painful  upon  suffering  the  foot  to  hang  down, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  keep  it  constantly  ele- 
vated upon  a  chair.  Although  I  assured  him 
there  was  no  hope  of  his  being  able  to  leave 
home  the  next  day,  yet  he  insisted  upon  my 
calling  again  after  dinner,  which  I  accordingly 

did.     I  found  his  friend,  the  Hon.  Mr.  R s, 

sitting  with  him,  and  he  was  conversing  freely 
and  easily.     I  was  surprised  at  the  control  he 


exercised  over  himself.  The  Colonel  took  a  deep 
interest  in  political  affairs,  and  they  were  dis- 
cussing some  interesting  and  exciting  topics 
which  were  expected  to  occupy  the  Congress 
then  in  session.  In  the  midst  of  their  conver- 
sation, a  clerk  from  the  bank  came  in  and 
handed  the  Colonel  a  note,  which  he  told  him 
was  due  that  day,  and  asked  him  what  he  would 
have  done  with  it.  He  looked  at  it  a  moment, 
and  said  to  the  clerk,  who  remained  standing : 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  taking  this  trouble, 

Mr. .     I  have  been  so  much  annoyed  by 

my  accident  and  the  subsequent  confinement 
and  pain,  that  it  had  escaped  my  mind.  This 
is  unfortunate.  I  cannot  come  down  to  attend 
to  it." 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  continued 
with  a  confident  smile  on  his  countenance  : 

"  I  believe  I  must  ask  a  small  favor  of  you, 

R s ;  a  mere  matter  of  form.     Will  you  be 

kind  enough  to  lend  me  your  name  for  a  few 
days,  till  I  get  about  again  ?" 

Mr.  R s  assented,  as  any  man  would 

have  done  in  the  same  case.  The  Colonel 
drew  a  small  table  to  his  side,  on  which  were 

writing  materials,  and   wrote.      Mr.  R s 

took  the  paper,  or  Col.  O n  tore  it  off  and 

handed  it  to  him,  and  wrote  his  name  on  the 
back,  without  looking  at  the  face  of  it.  The 
clerk  received  it,  and  departed  with  the  renewal 
of  a  note  at  thirty  days  for  five  thousand  dollars, 
secured  by  the  endorsement  of  the  Hon.  Charles 

R s.     Tliis  gentleman  soon  took  his  leave. 

Directly  afterwards  the  Colonel's  wife  entered 
the  room,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  conversation 
took  a  general  turn.  At  length  the  lady  said, 
with  a  smile : 

"Mr.  O n  will  hardly  be  able  to  go  to 

the  city  to-morrow.  Doctor  ?" 

"  It  cannot  be  possible,  madam,"  I  replied, 
"  under  present  circumstances." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  he,  "  and  if  I 
should,  I  would  not  do  any  business.  Yet  1 
ought  to  go.  How  is  it,  Doctor  ?  Might  I  not 
be  carried  without  increasing  my  pain  much  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  might  in  your  bed,"  said  his 
wife,  laughing. 

"  And  be  carried  in  my  bed  from  one  bank 
to  another?  No;  that  will  not  do.  Well,  I  will 
submit,  and  stay  at  home,  and  in  the  mean  time 
I  will  take  an  anodyne  powder,  which  Doctor 

advised  me  to  use,  when  he  attended  me, 

and  of  which  I  have  a  single  one  left,  I  be- 
lieve." 

He  took  hia  wallet  from  his  pocket,  and 


THE  SUICIDE. 


231 


from  one  of  the  interior  apartments  of  it  he 
drew  out  a  small  folded  piece  of  white  paper. 
This  was  only  the  exterior  envelop  of  two 
other  papers.  The  two  exterior  ones  he  threw 
into  the  fire,  and  from  the  other  he  shook  a 
small  quantity  of  a  white  powder  into  a  wine- 
glass of  water,  which  his  wife  had  set  by  his 
side.  He  threw  this  paper  also  into  the  fire, 
and,  agitating  the  glass  gently,  swallowed  the 
draught. 

»  What  is  it  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  replied  ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  his  wife  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

Just  at  that  moment  I  obser\'ed  his  counte- 
nance to  become  suffused  with  a  bright  flush, 
his  lips  livid ;  and,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head, 
he  became  suddenly  convulsed,  his  arms  and 
legs  rigid,  and  his  body  bent  forcibly  backwards. 
Suspecting  some  mistake  in  the  article  he  had 
taken,  and  that  he  might  have  swallowed  poison, 
I  immediately  used  every  means  to  ward  off  its 
effects.  But  being  ignorant  of  its  character, 
and  the  patient  continuing  obstinately  silent, 
the  result  was  that  all  efibrts  were  unavailing. 
In  half  an  hour  respiration  ceased  ;  the  heart 
paused ;  the  flush  passed  slowly  downwards 
from  his  face  and  disappeared.     He  was  dead. 

I  did  not  mention  my  suspicions  even  to  his 
wife.  In  a  few  days  it  became  morally  cer- 
tain that  he  was  poisoned.  But  he  had  suffered 
long  from  disease  of  the  heart,  and  men  die 
suddenly  often  of  disease  of  that  organ ;  and 
that  would  be  as  sufficient  a  cause  for  the  death 

of  Col.  O n  as  of  any  other  man,  and  much 

more  satisfactory  to  his  family  than  to  believe 
him  to  have  committed  suicide.  That  such, 
however,  was  actually  the  case,  becam#to  me 
in  a  few  days,  and  remains  still,  a  matter  of 
certainty.  And  the  same  developments  that 
satisfied  me  on  this  point,  revealed  to  me  also 
the  cause  of  all  those  symptoms  which  had  for 
years  perplexed  his  physicians. 

Just  one  week  after  his  decease,  the  whole 
village  was  astounded  by  the  discovery  that  Col. 

O n  had  died  insolvent,  and  had  left  debts 

to  an  amount  considerably  more  than  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  resources  to  meet 
them  not  amounting  to  one  hundred  cents. 

I  might  stop  here,  but  I  should  leave  the 
reader  unsatisfied.  He  feels  a  natural  curiosity 
to  know  something  more  of  the  singular  ail- 
ment of  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  and  also  how 
it  resulted  as  it  did.  This  1  proceed,  then, 
briefly  to  relate. 


We  now  and  then  meet  with  a  man,  whose 
fingers  seem  to  be  the  true  philosopher's  stone. 
Whatever  they  touch  becomes  gold  by  the  con- 
tact. Such  men  are  rare,  I  admit ;  but,  after 
all,  such  men  there  are.  They  have  no  schemes 
for  making  money ;  they  never  lay  far-reach- 
ing plans  involving  the  risk  of  loss  and  the 
mere  possibility  of  gain  ;  they  make  no  ven- 
tures. They  only  do  what  comes  to  their  hand, 
and  are  always  successful.  They  do  not  stop 
to  calculate  this  chance,  and  that  probability, 
but  they  go  straight  on,  and  act,  and — win. 
They  never  lose.  If  a  storehouse,  filled  with 
rich  and  costly  cargoes  from  the  Indies,  is  con- 
sumed to  the  ground  in  a  night,  the  next  day  a 
bank  rises.  Phoenix-like,  from  its  ashes,  and 
they  have  made  a  plum  by  the  accident.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  is.  I  could  never  see  into  it 
They  are  men  of  no  calibre,  no  intellect,  and 
oftentimes  can  hardly  write  their  own  names. 
Let  a  calculating,  cool,  cunning  business  man, 
who  has  made  a  fortune  by  his  well-laid  schemes 
and  prudent  entetprises,  come  to  them  with  a 
plan  by  which,  it  is  plain  to  him,  a  large  amount 
of  money  will  be  realized,  and  explain  it,  and 
demonstrate  its  certainly  of  success — and  they 
cannot  see  through  it.  It  is  all  Hebrew  to 
them.  It  is  not  by  their  brains  they  succeed. 
Providence  watches  over  tliem,  and  pours 
abounding  riches  into  their,  often  ungrateful, 
bosoms.     Of  this  class  was  iwt  Col.  O n. 

There  is  another  class  of  men,  just  the  re- 
verse of  these,  and  by  no  means  so  rare.  They 
belong,  naturally,  to  what  are  called  "  specu- 
lating times,"  but  are  to  be  found  always  and 
everywhere.  They  wear  always  smiling,  con- 
fident-seeming faces,  and  think  they  lay  their 
plans  and  form  their  schemes  for  making  money 
with  consummate  skill  and  cunning.  They 
are  always  borrowing  money,  and  some  of  them 
are  punctual  in  paying.  Some  fail  soon  after 
they  begin  ;  others  are  successful ;  and  a  few 
have  tlie  adroitness  to  conceal  their  rottenness, 
and  wear  out  a  long  life  upon  fictitious  capital, 
and  borrowed  money,  and  reputed  wealth,  and 
die  leaving  a  bankrupt  estate,  and  despised 
character,  and  dishonored  name  to  their  family. 

Of  this  class  was  Col.  O n,  the  gentleman 

son  of  a  large  farmer  in  W county — the 

pennyless  specdiator — the  popular  president  of 
the bank — the  suicide. 

I  need  not  go  back  to  his  early  life,  to  show 
what  he  was  then.  He  was  tlie  same  from  the 
period  at  which  he  first  entered  upon  the  active 
business  of  life,  till  he  died.    Unsuccessful 


232 


THE  SUICIDE. 


speculations  had  involved  him  to  a  considerable 
amount;  but  this  he  contrived  to  keep  secret, 
and  with  a  confident  air  applied  to  his  friends 
for  accommodation.  He  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  bold,  but  clear-sighted  and  safe  operator, 
and  readily  procured  what  aid  he  required. 
Still  he  was  unsuccessful  and  constantly  retro- 
grading. He  now  saw  it  become  necessary 
to  use  all  his  caution  to  prevent  the  discovery 
of  his  true  circumstances.  He  had  recently 
married  into  a  family  supposed  to  be  very  rich, 
but  actually  as  worthless  as  he  was  himself. 
The  marriage,  however,  was  a  fortunate  one 
for  him  just  at  that  juncture,  for  it  gave  his 
friends  additional  confidence  in  his  resources. 
But  he  felt  his  own  insecurity,  and  that  one 
false  step  would  involve  him  in  utter  ruin  and 
disgrace.  Should  suspicion,  from  any  cause, 
become  attached  to  him,  he  was  lost.  But  he 
was  still  unsuspected.  His  credit  was  whole. 
Men  believed  that  he  had  been  realizing  large 
sums  from  his  various  operations,  while  he  had 
been  constantly  losing.  He  had  contrived,  by 
new  and  larger  loans  upon  the  security  of  some 
of  his  friends,  to  pay  up  the  ums  he  had  borrowed 
from  others,  and  keep  in  advance  of  present 
necessities,  could  this  be  made  to  hold  out. 
He  was  alarmed,  and  sat  down  to  investigate 
his  position.  This  was  the  first  attack  of  what 
was  ever  after  considered  a  periodical  disease, 
and  was  in  fact  nothing  more  than  his  intense 
anxiety  of  mind,  under  a  deep  sense  of  his  peril- 
ous position.  This  was  comparatively  mild  to 
what  they  afterwards  became,  and  if  noticed  by 
his  friends,  was  only  regarded  as  temporary 
anxiety  for  the  success  of  some  speculation. 
He  called  all  his  ingenuity  to  his  aid  at  this 
time,  and  after  consideration  for  a  day  or  two, 
the  plan  was  perfected.  It  was  the  only  suc- 
cessful one  he  ever  concocted,  but  this  was 
eminently  so.  He  determined  to  relinquish  all 
speculation  and  business,  while  he  continued 
to  keep  up  an  appearance  of  being  as  deep  in  it 
as  ever ;  to  collect  all  his  debts  into  two  or 
three  sums,  due  at  different  periods  of  the  year, 
and  to  meet  the  payments  as  they  became  due, 
by  borrowing  the  securities  of  his  different 
friends  at  different  times,  and  resorting  to  vari- 
ous banks  for  the  loans,  enlarging  enough  each 
time  to  meet  the  expenses  of  his  style  of  living. 
The  scheme  was  as  weak  and  flimsy  a  one  as 
a  man  ever  invented  for  a  small  business,  mtich 
more  for  one  already  involving  thousands  of 
dollars.  But  to  him,  after  mature  deliberation, 
it  jeemed  not  only  plausible,  but  certain  of  suc- 


cess. And,  improbable  as  it  may  seem,  it  did 
succeed,  and  only  because  it  never  entered  into 

the  mind  of  man  to  suspect  Col.  O n  of 

roguery  or  deception.  But  at  each  return  of 
the  time  at  which  it  became  necessary  to  pro- 
vide for  his  emergencies,  his  mind  was  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension  and  doubt.  Still  he 
never  found  any  difficulty  in  procuring  all  the 
money  he  required  ;  and,  the  business  once  more 
arranged,  he  was  himself  again. 

In  the  course  of  his  speculations,  however, 
he  had  managed  to  secure  two  large  and  valu- 
able farms  in  a  distant  part  of  the  State.  To 
these  he  now  had  recourse,  and  by  mortgaging 
them,  he  raised  money  to  build  him  an  elegant 
mansion  and  furnish  it  in  the  most  costly  style. 
This  was  a  new  prop  to  his  still  uninjured  re- 
putation. But  there  happened  at  length  a  time 
when  the  possibility  of  raising  a  considerable 
sum  to  meet  his  largest  payment  seemed  almost 
hopeless.  The  friend  from  whom  he  was  ex- 
pecting aid  was  absent  from  home.  The  day 
was  just  at  hand,  and  disclosure  and  disgrace 
seemed  staring  him  in  the  face.  Hesitation 
was  ruin.  He  had  hoped  to  avoid  this,  but 
there  was  one  resort  left.  A  mortgage  on  bis 
house  and  furniture  saved  him.  This,  how- 
ever, after  it  was  done,  was  a  relief,  for  it  had 
considerably  reduced  his  liabilities.  One  pay- 
ment was  stopped ;  one  source  of  his  periodic 
agony  of  mind  was  cut  off.  He  could  now 
breathe  freely  for  six  months.  How  he  bore  it 
1  do  not  know.  How  he  managed  to  keep  that 
perpetual  smile  on  his  countenance  is  a  mys- 
tery to  me. 

The  establishment  of  a  bank  in  the  place 
was  one  of  the  most  fortunate  events  in  his  life. 
It  needed  no  management  for  him  to  procure 
the  presidency.  He  was  just  the  man.  His 
reputation  as  a  financier  was  unequaled — a 
quality  which  was  exactly  equaled  by  his 
wealth.  But  everybody  thought  him  one,  aiKl 
that  was  enough.  Here  were  new  facilities 
afforded  him  at  once  and  unsought.  His  friends 
required  loans,  and  mutual  arrangements  were 
easily  made.  A  considerable  part  of  his  debts 
was  now  transferred  to  the  new  institution. 
JIad  he  been  the  sole  manager  in  the  concern, 
it  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to  con- 
dense all  his  debts  at  once,  and  by  prudent 
management  to  have  done  as  other  bankers 
had  done  before  him,  in  just  as  false  and  penny- 
less  condition.  But  there  were  other  officers 
in  the  bank  ;  there  were  the  directors — Argus- 
eyed,  prudent,  sagacious,  and  perhaps  honest 


THE  SUICIDE. 


233 


men ;  there  were  the  cashier  and  the  clerk, 
who  made  up  every  night  the  cash  account, 
and  whose  interest  lay  in  the  interest  of  the 
bank.  No  under-handed  means  could  be  re- 
sorted to,  if  he  had  been  so  inclined  ;  and  who 
might  not  have  some  such  tlioughts,  situated 
as  he  was — groaning  under  debts  constantly 
increasing,  and  which  were  fast  mounting  up 
to  the  size  of  a  respectable  bank  capital  ?  The 
same  caution,  the  same  steady,  unwavering, 
sleepless  watchfulness  was  necessary  as  before, 
to  elude  the  vigilance  and  honesty  of  other 
men,  and  to  keep  down  suspicion.  But  he  did 
not  stagger  under  the  burden.  He  was  still 
the  cheerful  and  open-faced  man  he  had  ever 
been — always  disposed  to  have  his  friends  ac- 
commodated at  the  bank,  and  to  make  new 
friends  of  wealthy  men  even  from  a  distance, 
who  wanted  bank  aid.  He  could  use  them  all 
to  advantage.  Indeed,  it  was  an  additional  se- 
curity to  his  standing,  if  he  could  use  new 
names  occasionally  upon  his  paper,  and  it  was 
better  than  to  be  always  calling  on  the  same 
friends,  even  at  the  long  intervals  which  inter- 
vened between  the  times  that  demanded  it.  It 
did  indeed  require  consummate  skill  in  finan- 
ciering to  blind  the  eyes  of  everybody,  and  hide 
so  much  rottenness  for  so  many  years.  He 
was  often  absent  from  home  for  several  days  at 
a  time,  leaving  the  impression  behind  him  that 
he  had  gone  to  see  to  property  in  one  place,  or 
to  buy  in  another,  or  to  sell  in  a  third,  or  to 
make  a  capital  speculation  here  or  there.  He 
let  it  be  understood  that  he  owned  a  large 

amount  of  property  in  the  city  of ,  and 

everybody  thought  he  did.  It  was  wonderful, 
after  all,  that  he  held  out  as  he  did,  and  that 
his  troubles  did  not  drive  him  mad  or  kill  him. 
They  did  eventually  bring  on  the  affection  of 
the  heart,  which  I  have  mentioned,  but  it  had 
not  reached  much  intensity  when  he  died. 

Another  facility  also  he  found  in  his  position 
in  the  bank,  and  which  he  made  use  of  to  its 
utmost  extent,  involving  many  poor  people  in 
ruin.  Besides  the  business  men  who  made 
their  daily  deposits,  to  withdraw  them  as  they 
needed  them,  there  were  many  persons  of  small 
income,  and  others,  who  placed  their  surplus 
money  in  the  bank  till  some  favorable  oppor- 
tunity should  occur  for  investing  it  to  advantaf^e. 

To  such.  Col.  O n  proposed  that,  as  their 

money  was  drawing  no  interest  while  lying  in 
the  vaults  of  the  bank,  he  would  borrow  it  of 
them,  giving  his  note  drawing  interest,  and 
le  on  demand.     With  the  utmost  confi- 


dence in  his  integrity  and  ability,  such  an  ofier 
was  gladly  embraced,  and  the  money  often  left 
for  an  indefinite  time  in  his  hands.  These 
sums,  small  individually,  drawn  from  many  de- 
positors, for  several  years,  in  gross  amounted 
to  a  good  deal.  He  was  careful  to  pay  the  in- 
terest on  them  regularly,  and  few  of  the  original 
sums  were  ever  called  for,  as  this  was  all  the 
owners  wanted. 

Men  situated  as  was  Col.  O n  are  too 

often  made  the  trustees  and  executors  of  the 
property  of  orphans  and  minors.  Their  reputed 
wealth  and  acquaintance  with  business  matters, 
and  the  profitable  investment  and  management 
of  money,  and  the  universal  credit  they  enjoy 
for  honesty  and  honor,  seem  to  point  them  out 
as  proper  persons  to  have  the  care  of  the  pro- 
perty of  those  who  are  not  legally  competent 
to  manage  their  own  affairs.  He  held  in  trust 
sums  to  a  considerable  amount  belonging  to 
others.  But  why  need  I  enumerate  more? 
He  was  immensely  rich  in  the  estimation  of 
men :  he  was  actually  rich  in  trusts  and  debts 
due  to  others. 

The  time  drew  on  slowly,  but  surely — the 
time  which  he  always  knew  must  come,  and 
for  which  he  had  trembled  with  an  agony  of 
apprehension  several  times  every  year — in  which 
it  became  impossible  any  longer  to  conceal  his 
true  situation.  Troubles  had  been  thickening 
for  years  ;  the  circle  of  fire  had  been  gradually 
drawing  closer  around  him.  For  this  he  had 
probably  long  before  made  preparation,  by  de- 
positing in  his  wallet  the  poison  which  should 
end  his  life  before  disgrace  fell  upon  him. 
Confined  to  his  house  at  the  time  he  most 
needed  to  be  abroad,  to  provide  for  meeting  his 
notes  which  were  about  to  become  due — pre- 
vented from  going  to  the  city,  where  he  had 
usually  gone  to  meet  liabilities  there — and 
warned  by  the  almost  dishonored  bill  which 
the  bank -clerk  had  brought  him,  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  end  it.  But  with  this  resolution  in 
his  heart,  he  still  had  the  coolness  and  baseness 

to  involve  his  friend  R s  in  his  ruin.    This 

cunning  act  completed,  he  took  the  poison. 

His  remains  were  followed  to  the  grave  by 
multitudes.  The  village  papers  went  into 
mourning,  and  published  flowing  panegyrics  to 
his  memory.  One  week  changed  the  picture. 
Almost  every  man  of  sufficient  credit  had  his 
name  on  the  Colonel's  notes,  and  when  at 
length  the  full  truth  came  to  light,  he  was  dis- 
covered to  be  bankrupt  for  more  than  one 
hund^'ed  thousand  dollars. 


234 


MEETING. 


MMf  SBfi^. 


BY   T.  W.  FIELD. 


A^HEN  through  the  closing  gates  of  day 

Bright  vistas  we  behold, 
And  Twilight  trails  along  the  sky 

Her  mantle  fringed  with  gold ; 

When  lingering  day  stands  on  the  hills, 

And  waits  the  veiled  even, 
While  angel  forms  seem  leaning  o'er 

The  battlements  of  heaven  : 

The  weary  soul,  on  wings  of  thought, 
Seems  fluttering  in  its  clay — 

A  bird  which  views  its  native  land, 
And  pants  to  be  away  ; 

And  past  events  appear  anew, 
On  Memory's  tear-dimmed  book, 

Like  half-filled  foot-prints  seen  beneath 
The  waters  of  a  brook. 

A  hum  of  wings  is  on  the  air, 
The  shrill  brook  talks  of  showers. 


And  homeward  bees  along  their  track 
Winnow  perfumes  of  flowers. 

From  out  the  chamoers  of  the  night 
The  stars  come  startling  forth, 

Like  sudden  trutlis  upon  the  soul, 
Which  Reason's  sky  gave  birth. 

The  woods,  and  hills,  and  all,  are  still, 
Slow  darkening  on  the  view, 

Save  one  lone  cloud,  whose  inner  light 
Glows  with  a  sunset  hue. 

Its  silver  foldings  cloaked  with  gray, 
The  coming  gloom  forecast, 

Like  shadows  of  the  Future  thrown 
On  the  retreating  Past. 

For  day  and  night  are  meeting  there, 

Blent  in  the  fading  even — 
So  friends,  when  one  was  not  on  earth, 

Meet  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 


ITIEIY  WmiLs  M   ©(DHffi. 


BY    T      S.     ARTHUR. 


"Doctor  !  my  child  must  not  die !" 

"  With  God  arc  the  issues  of  life,"  replied 
the  physician  solemnly. 

"  Don't — don't  speak  to  me  in  that  way. 
Doctor,"  said  the  agonized  father.  "  I  say  my 
child  must  not  die.  She  is  more  to  me  than  all 
I  possess.     Call  in  further  aid.     Consult  with 

Doctors  L ,  and  B ,  and  S .     There 

is,  there  must  be,  power  in  medicine  to  save 
her." 

♦*  I  will  not  deceive  you,  Mr.  Librand.    I  dare 


not.  Your  daughter  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  skill.  There  are  signs  of  approaching 
mortality  that  no  physician  can  mistake." 

"  I  will  not  believe  it.  Doctor,"  returned  the 
unhappy  father  passionately.  "  It  cannot,  it 
must  not  be !  Call  in  the  best  medical  counsel 
to  be  found,  and  save  my  child.  She  must  not 
be  taken  from  me." 

The  physician  went  away  sad  at  heart. 
There  was  no  hope  with  liim.  The  child  of 
tlie  merchant  must  die,  for  the  cold  fingers  of 


THY     \^^LL    BE     DONE. 


235 


death  were  already  in  her  heart,  and  the  waters 
of  life  were  congeahng.  But  he  called  in  the 
ablest  members  of  tlie  profession,  and  long  was 
the  consultation  they  held,  after  leaving  the 
bedside  of  the  young  and  beautiful  girl  who 
was  about  departing — a  pure  spirit  for  the 
world  of  spirits. 

Wliile  the  physicians  consulted,  the  father 
paced  the  length  of  his  parlors  slowly  to  and  fro, 
in  the  bitterness  of  a  fearful  suspense.  At  length 
tlie  tread  of  feet  was  heard  upon  the  stairs.  His 
respiration  ceased  and  then  went  on  again  with 
suffocating  irregularity.  All  but  the  famUy  phy- 
sician left  the  house,  and  he  came  in  to  advise 
Mr.  Librand  of  the  result  of  tlie  examination 
and  conference.  The  fatlier's  face  was  pale, 
and  his  lips  quivered  as  he  said  : 

"  There  is  hope  ?" 

"  None,  my  friend  !  I  cannot,  I  dare  not  de- 
ceive you." 

The  merchant  staggered  back,  and  sunk 
ner\-eless  upon  a  sofa. 

She  was  his  only  child,  and  her  mother  had 
years  ago  faded  as  she  was  fading,  and  gone 
down  to  the  grave  as  she  was  going.  The  mer- 
chant had  great  possessions,  and  had  surrounded 
himself  with  all  the  good  things  of.  life ;  but  his 
gentle  Marion  was  more  to  him,  twice,  yea, 
thrice  told,  than  all  the  rest.  And  Marion  was 
about  to  die. 

"Leave  me.  Doctor!  If  you  cannot  save 
my  child,  leave  me  !"  said  Mr.  Librand,  wav- 
ing his  hand  to  the  physician. 

The  doctor  stood  reflecting  for  a  moment, 
and  then  silently  withdrew.  From  the  house 
of  the  merchant  he  drove  to  the  residence  of 
the  minister  of  the  church  to  which  Mr.  Li- 
brand belonged.  Mr.  Loring,  the  minister,  was 
a  man  who  had  himself  seen  affliction.  He 
was  well  advanced  in  years,  and  stood,  except 
in  his  official  relation  to  the  world,  almost  alone. 
Wife  and  children,  all  had  left  him  for  a  purer 
and  a  better  sphere.  But  he  was  a  cheerful  old 
man.  He  knew  in  whom  he  had  beheved,  and 
was  one  who  could  thank  God  even  for  afflic- 
tion." 

"  I  wish  you  would  see  Mr.  Librand,"  said  the 
physician,  on  meeting  the  minister. 

"  Is  Marion  worse  ?"  asked  Mr.  Loring,  with 
evident  concern. 

'•I  have  had  but  little  hope  of  her  from  the  first," 
retu  rned  the  physi  cian .  "  Now  all  hope  is  gone . 
She  cannot  recover.  We  held  a  consultation 
on  her  case  this  morning,  and  all  agree  with  me 
tliat  she  is  beyond  the  reach  of  medicine." 


"  Does  her  father  know  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  plainly  told  him  the  worst" 

"  How  does  he  bear  it  ?" 

"  More  like  a  weak  child  than  a  strong  man. 
I  am  afraid  it  will  destroy  his  reason.  Will 
you  not  see  him,  Mr.  Loring,  and  offer  him  spir- 
itual comfort  ?  for  earth  has  no  medicine  for  his 
affliction." 

"  I  will  go  to  him  now,"  replied  the  minister. 

"  May  you  find  some  words  that  will  reach 
him  and  save  him  from  the  gloom  and  despond- 
ency into  which  he  is  sinking." 

When  Mr.  Loring  reached  the  house  of  Mr. 
Librand,  he  found  the  merchant  walking  the 
rooms  in  which  his  family  physician  had  left  hhn 
half  an  hour  before,  in  great  distress  of  mind. 

"  How  is  your  daughter  ?"  asked  the  minis- 
ter, as  he  took  his  hand. 

"  Beyond  the  hope  of  recovery,  they  tell  me ; 
but  I  cannot,  I  will  not  believe  it  God  will  not 
surely  rob  me  of  my  only  child.  Oh,  sir,  you 
are  his  minister — say !  do  you  think  He  will  ?*' 

"  The  Lord  seeth  not  as  man  sees,"  replied 
Mr.  Loring.  "  His  ways  are  inscrutable.  But 
all  that  He  does  is  for  the  best,  and  we  should 
humbly  acquiesce  in  His  dispensations,  and  say, 
'Thy  wiU  be  done.'" 

"  There  is  no  comfort  in  that  to  me,  Mr.  Ix)- 
ring.  But  to  take  away  my  only  child !  my 
loving  and  beloved  one  !  the  very  stay  of  my 
life  !  No — no.  It  is  not  best ;  and  for  me  to 
say, '  Thy  will  be  done,'  would  be  mockery," 

«  Shall  not  the  God  of  all  the  earth  do  right  ? 
Shall  He  not  claim  His  own,  when  He  thinks  it 
best  to  do  so  ?  The  dear  angel  you  call  your  child 
belongs  really  to  God.  And  shall  He  not  take 
her  to  Himself  when  He  will .'" 

"  You  speak  in  a  strange  language,  Mr.  Lo- 
ring. I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  mer- 
chant, with  some  sternness  of  manner. 

"  We  are  the  creatures  of  His  hand ;  the 
sheep  of  His  pasture.  Shall  He  not  do  with  us 
as  He  thinks  best  ?" 

The  merchant  answered  by  an  impatient 
gesture. 

"  May  I  see  Marion?"  asked  Mr.  Loring,  who 
saw  that  in  the  merchant's  present  state  of 
mind  words  were  useless. 

"  If  you  please."  And  the  two  went  up  to 
the  sick  chamber. 

Elevated  upon  pillows,  lay  the  fragile  form  of 
a  young  and  lovely  girl,  over  whose  sweet  face 
passed  a  gentle  smile,  as  her  father  and  the 
minister  entered. 

"  How  are  you,  my  child  ?"  said  Mr.  Loring, 


236 


THY    WILL    BE     DONE. 


as  he  took  her  white,  almost  transparent  hand 
in  his. 

"  I  believe  I  am  not  so  well,"  Marion  replied, 
in  a  low,  calm  voice.  As  she  said  this,  her  eyes 
wandered  to  the  face  of  her  father,  and  a  tender, 
loving  expression  passed  over  her  countenance. 

"But  all  is  right  here?"  And  Mr.  Loring 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  breast. 

•'  Yes,  all  is  right  there.  I  know  that  few 
and  brief  are  the  days  that  remain  to  me,  but  I 
am  ready  for  the  change  whenever  it  comes." 

"  You  are  not,  then,  afraid  to  walk  through 
the  dark  valley  ?" 

"  Afraid  ?  Oh,  no.  He  will  send  His  angels 
to  be  with  me." 

Here  the  father  interrupted  the  conversation, 
and  reproved,  covertly,  the  minister  for  intro- 
ducing such  a  subject  at  such  a  time. 

"  Speak  of  life,  Mr.  Loring,  not  of  death,"  he 
said. 

"And  does  he  not  speak  of  life?"  inquired 
Marion,  sweetly — "  of  the  true,  eternal  life  ?  It 
is  not  really  death,  father,  but  the  passing  from 
death  unto  life.  I  shall  go  from  a  world  of 
darkness  to  a  world  of  light.  Dear  father  !" 
and  the  daughter  leaned  over,  and,  taking  her 
father's  hand  in  both  of  hers,  looked  earnestly 
into  his  face.  "  Dear  father,"  she  repeated, 
"  if  God  were  willing,  I  would  gladly  stay  with 
you  here,  and  make  the  flowers  grow  thickly 
about  your  feet ;  but  I  am  called  and  must  go. 
The  time  of  my  probation  is  nearly  ended.  I 
can  feel  myself  near  to  the  spirit  world.  God 
knoweth  better  than  we,  the  times  and  the  sea- 
sons for  all  events.  It  will  be  a  dreary  world 
for  you  when  I  am  gone ;  but  think  not  of  me 
as  far  away  and  lost,  but  as  near  to  you,  and 
still  your  own  loving  Marion.  For  I  shall  still 
love  you,  and  love  will  bring  me  near  to  you, 
perhaps  nearer  than  now.  Look  up,  father,  oh, 
look  up !  and  say, '  Thy  will  be  done.' " 

Mr.  Librand's  face  was  now  buried  in  the 
pillow  that  supported  the  head  of  his  child,  and 
his  whole  frame  quivered  with  agitation. 

"  Look  to  Heaven,  father,  and  speak  those 
confiding  words.  Say,  Thy  will  be  done,  and 
you  will  feel  more  resigned." 

"I  cannot,"  murmured  the  father,  "I  can- 
not, Marion ;  you  must  not  go.  Since  your  mo- 
ther's death,  you  have  been  all  to  me.  Say  you 
will  yet  live." 

Tears  dimmed  the  eyes  of  Marion.  She  tried 
to  say  more,  but  her  lips  quivered  so  that  she 
could  not  articnlatc. 

"  With  God  are  the  issues  of  life,"  said  the 


minister,  in  a  solemn  voice.  "  If  he  call,  the 
spirit  must  answer ;  if  he  summon,  the  spirit 
must  obey." 

"  Dear  father," — Marion  had  recovered  her- 
self, and  now  spoke  in  a  calm  voice, — "say  in 
your  heart.  Not  my  will,  but  Thine  be  done. 
That  is  the  true  philosophy  of  life.  There  is 
none  other  that  can  bring  peace  to  the  troubled 
spirit.  I  go  but  a  little  while  before  you,  and 
will  wait  and  welcome  your  coming.  Do  not 
rebel  against  this  dispensation.  God  is  good- 
ness itself,  and  His  wings  of  mercy  are  over  us 
in  affliction  as  well  as  in  joy." 

The  father  answered  not,  but  his  stern  si- 
lence told  how  strongly  his  heart  rebelled. 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  a  merciful  Providence," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Loring,  on  leaving  the  chamber 
of  his  daughter.  "It  is  cruel  to  take  from  me 
my  child.  Is  she  not  all  I  have  to  love  ?  Was 
it  not  enough  to  rob  me  of  her  mother,  that  the 
child  must  be  taken  also  ?" 

"  Mr.  Librand,"  returned  the  minister,  •'  the 
future  has  been  wisely  concealed  from  us.  We 
cannot  know  what  even  a  day  is  to  bring  forth  ; 
but  we  may  know,  if  we  will,  that  every  event 
affecting  us  is  under  the  control  and  direction 
of  an  all-wise  and  infinitely  merciful  God,  who 
permits  nothing  to  take  place  that  does  not  look, 
either  directly  or  indirectly,  to  our  good — not 
our  mere  temporal,  but  our  eternal  good,  for  it 
is  this  that  the  Divine  Providence  regards. 
Time  and  sense  bound  our  vision,  and  the  things 
of  this  world  engross  our  affections,  thus  pre- 
venting our  minds  from  being  opened  to  what 
is  higher,  purer  and  eternal.  But  the  Divine 
Providence,  in  all  that  concerns  us,  ever  seeks 
the  elevation  of  our  affections  from  natural 
things  to  such  as  are  spiritual ;  and  in  doing 
this,  often  lays  upon  us  the  burden  of  sorrow. 
But  these  light  afflictions,  which  are  but  for  a 
moment,  work  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and 
eternal  weight  of  glory." 

"  1  cannot  understand  you,"  said  Mr,  Li- 
brand, impatiently  interrupting  the  minister. 
"  All  that  I  understand  or  feel,  is  the  fact  that 
my  child,  in  whom  my  very  life  is  wrapped  up, 
is  about  being  taken  from  me.  Is  that  a  mer- 
ciful dispensation  ?  No!  it  is  mockery  to  say 
that  it  is." 

Vain  were  the  minister's  efforts  to  give 
strength  to  the  heart  of  Mr.  Librand,  or  to  lift 
up  his  bowed  head. 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  resignation  !"  he  would 
reply.  "  I  cannot,  I  will  not  be  resigned  to  this 
cruel  bereavement." 


THY    WILL    BE    DONE. 


237 


But  it  is  in  vain  that  we  struggle  against  the 
firmly  dispensed  behests  of  infinite  wisdom, 
guided  by  infinite  love.  Death  calls  the  aged 
and  the  young,  the  poor  and  the  rich,  the  ten- 
derly loved  and  the  coldly  neglected  ones,  and 
his  voice  must  be  obeyed.  The  sands  ran  low- 
in  the  life-glass  of  the  young  maiden,  and  the 
hour  of  parting  at  length  came.  Tenderly  did 
she  urge  patience  and  resignation  upon  her 
half-distracted  parent ;  but  her  words  had,  or 
appeared  to  have,  no  effect. 

She  had  lain  for  some  time,  with  her  eyes 
closed,  and  a  placid  expression  on  her  face,  after 
having  uttered  many  tender  and  consoling 
words,  when  a  sudden  smile  illuminated  her 
countenance — a  bright  and  heavenly  smile. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  was  heard.  Mr. 
Librand  bent  eagerly  down  to  listen. 

"  Thy  will  be  done,"  were  the  only  w;ords 
his  ear  could  distinguish.  The  motion  of  her 
lips  ceased  ;  the  smile  faded ;  and  Marion  slept. 
When  she  awoke,  her  companions  were  angels 
and  good  spirits! 

Sternly  did  the  heart  of  the  stricken  parent 
rebel  against  this  affliction.  He  was  angry 
with  God,  and  arraigned  Him  before  the  bar  of 
his  finite  reason,  as  oppressive,  arbitrary  and 
cruel.  The  minister  spoke  words  of  consola- 
tion, but  his  earnest  efforts  were  repulsed  ;  and 
in  the  solitude  of  his  own  heart,  the  father 
brooded  over  and  nursed  his  sorrow. 

The  grass  grew  and  the  flowers  bloomed 
over  the  grave  of  Marion,  but  since  tlie  depar- 
ture of  her  pure  spirit  from  the  earth,  the  old 
family  pew  had  been  vacant  on  the  Sabbath. 
Her  father  sought  not  the  consolations  of  reli- 
gion, for  he  was  angry  with  God.  Many  times 
had  Mr.  Loring  approached,  and  striven  to  break 
down  the  sternness  of  his  grief,  to  pour  into  his 
heart  the  oil  and  wine  of  true  consolation  ;  but 
as  often  had  the  merchant  turned  coldly  from 
him. 

Thus  years  were  added  to  years,  and  still  the 
merchant  was  solitary,  stem  and  silent  in  his 
grief.  Many,  very  many  times  during  that 
long  night  of  afiliction,  did  Marion  come  to  him 
— whether  while  dreaming  or  awake,  he  often 
hardly  knew  ;  and  she  always  pointed  upwards 
with  a  look  of  holy  confidence,  and  always  re- 
peated the  words  last  whispered  in  his  ear,  as 
he  bent  eagerly  over  her,  when  life  was  ebbing 
feebly  away. 

At  last  his  dream  or  vision  of  Marion  changed. 
He  came  home  from  his  counting-room  one 
day,  feeling  more  desolate  in  heart  than  usual, 


and  retired  to  his  room,  after  partaking  of 
his  solitary  evening  meal.  On  the  wall  "-ung 
an  almost  animated  likeness  of  his  child.  Upon 
this  he  fixed  his  eyes,  as  he  sat  in  the  usual 
place,  and  murmured,  in  the  words  of  Cowper, 

"  Oh  !  that  those  lips  had  langaage." 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  looking  npcn 
the  pictured  face  of  Marion,  thinking,  ever  and 
anon,  that  the  smile  grew  brighter  and  that 
the  lips  moved  as  if  about  to  speak.  This  illu- 
sion increased.  Surely  the  face  did  smile ! 
Surely  the  lips  moved  !  It  was  to  him  the  pulse- 
less efiigy  no  more,  but  the  living,  breathing 
Marion  ! — not  upon  the  wall  in  a  gilded  frame, 
but  standing  by  his  side,  with  her  arm  tenderly 
embracing  his  neck,  and  her  warm  lips  upon  his 
cheek.  A  moment  of  confusion,  and  the  fa- 
ther's mind  was  calm  and  clear.  The  past  was 
forgotten.  Marion,  sweet  Marion,  w-as,  and  had 
always  been  his.  There  had  been  no  bereave- 
ment, no  separation.  The  dream  of  afiSiction 
was  over,  and  its  impressions  effaced. 

The  merchant  was  happy.  Days  came  and 
went ;  the  seasons  changed  ;  and,  for  a  time,  all 
remained  bright,  for  Marion's  dear  face  was 
ever  shining  upon  him.  After  a  few  years, 
however,  suitors  presented  themselves — attract- 
ed, some  by  the  maiden's  loveliness  of  charac- 
ter, some  by  the  beauty  of  her  person,  and 
some  by  her  father's  wealth.  Mr.  Librand,  jeal- 
ous of  the  possession  of  so  rich  a  treasure, 
looked  coldly  upon  all,  and  repulsed  the  most 
worthy.  Soon  he  noticed,  with  concern,  that 
Marion  was  not  as  she  had  been.  Her  face  was 
more  thoughtful,  and  there  was  a  depth  of  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes,  till  then  unobserved. 
Home  seemed  to  have  lost  its  attractions,  for 
she  went  out  more  frequently  than  before,  and 
was  often  away  when  he  chanced  to  return  at- 
an  earlier  hour  than  usual.  If  he  questioned 
her  as  to  where  she  had  been,  she  gave  evasive 
answers. 

At  last  a  letter  from  some  unknown  friend 
came,  warning  him  of  the  existence  of  an  inti- 
macy between  Marion  and  a  man  of  bad  re- 
pute in  society.  Alarmed  and  fevered  by  this 
intelligence,  Mr.  Librand,  without  suitable  re- 
flection, placed  the  letter  in  Marion's  hand,  and 
sternly  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  I  have  none  to  make,"  coldly  replied  the 
daughter. 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  keep  company  with  this 
man,  and  that,  too,  clandestinely  ?"  asked  the 
angry  father. 

"  I  have  met  him  a  few  times ;  but  I  deny  the 


238 


THY     WILL    BE    DOAE. 


slanderous  charges  made  against  him  by  one 
who  is  afraid  to  give  his  name.  They  are 
false." 

"  They  are  true,  Marion  !"  said  Mr  Librand, 
"  /  know  them  to  be  true.  Gracious  Heaven  ! 
to  think  that  this  man  should  steal  into  my 
peaceful  home;  to  think  that  his  polluting 
breath  should  touch  you  !  Marion  !  as  true 
as  there  is  a  heaven,  so  true  is  this  man  as  base 
and  corrupt  as  an  evil  spirit." 

But  he  saw  that  his  w^ords  made  no  impres- 
sion upon  his  child. 

"  Do  you  believe  him  pure  and  good  .'"  he 
asked. 

"  I  do,"  wsls  the  calm  reply. 

"  He  is  vile,  he  is  evil,  he  is  false,  Marion  ! 
I  know  him.  I,  your  father,  vv^ho  loves  you, 
tells  you  that  he  knows  this.  Will  you  not 
credit  his  words  ?  Is  he  not  your  earliest,  your 
firmest,  and  your  best  friend  ?  God  help  you, 
Marion,  for  help  will  come  from  nowhere  else, 
if  you  disregard  my  warning.  A  thousand 
times  sooner  would  I  see  you  laid  in  the  grave, 
than  become  the  wife  of  this  wretch.  What 
spell  is  upon  you,  that  you  barken  not  to  my 
words,  Marion .'" 

The  daughter  had  turned  and  was  walking 
away  from  him. 

"  Marion  !"  he  called.  She  heeded  him  not, 
but  retired  and  left  him  alone. 

On  the  next  morning,  she  did  not  appear  at 
the  breakfast  table,  as  usual. 

"  Where  is  Marion  ?"  the  father  asked. 

"  She  has  not  come  down  yet,"  replied  the 
servant. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  ill.    Go  to  her  chamber." 

A  strange  fear  seized  upon  the  father's  heart. 

After  a  few  minutes'  absence,  the  servant  re- 
turned. Marion  was  not  in  her  chamber,  and, 
to  all  appearance,  had  not  spent  the  night  there. 
But  there  was  a  letter  upon  her  table.  Mr. 
Librand  broke  the  seal  with  trembling  hands. 
The  letter  contained  but  few  words.  They, 
alas  !  were  fatal  to  his  peace.  Marlon  had  left 
her  father's  house  and  thrown  herself  upon  the 
protection  of  one  whom  he  knew  to  be  base, 
cruel  and  corrupt.  For  a  time  the  sad  intelli- 
gence stunned  the  father ;  but,  as  soon  as  he 
could  think  clearly  wiiat  to  do,  he  went  forth  to 
seek  for  his  daughter,  and,  if  posible,  to  save 
her  from  the  vortex  of  misery  into  which  she 
was  about  plunging  herself.  He  found  her  the 
occupant  of  a  suite  of  rooms  at  a  hotel,  and 
already  the  wife  of  the  man  against  whom  he 
had  spoken  so  harshly.     She  met  him  with 


tears,  and  earnestly  implored  his  forgiveness  for 
what  she  had  done.  But  now  his  heart  became 
steeled  towards  his  e^ild,  and  he  turned  from 
her  and  left  her  to  her  fate. 

"Oh  !  that  she  had  never  been  born,  or  that 
the  grave  had  swallowed  her  a  year,  a  month, 
or  a  week  ago.  There  would  have  been  hope 
in  her  death,  if  she  had  died,  but  now  there  is 
no  hope  for  her." 

Thus  mourned  the  unhappy  father,  and  the 
voice  of  his  own  sorrow  softened  his  heart. 
But  many  days  elapsed  before  he  relented  to- 
.wards  Marion  ;  but  he  relented  too  late.  Her 
husband  had  gone  away  with  her  to  a  southern 
city. 

Years  seemed  to  go  by,  and  he  remained  a 
lonely  man.  No  word  came  from  his  child. 
He  had  sought  for  her,  but  his  search  had  been 
in  vain.     At  last  she  came  home. 

He  was  sitting,  sad  and  solitary,  one  evening, 
his  thoughts,  as  usual,  upon  Marion,  when  his 
door  opened,  and  a  slender,  deeply-veiled  figure, 
dressed  in  old  and  faded  garments,  entered  the 
room.  It  came  slowly  forward,  then  paused 
and  drew  aside  its  veil.  His  child  was  before 
him — his  long  lost,  long  mourned  Marion. 
But,  oh  !  how  changed.  The  round,  smooth, 
warmly  blushing  cheek — the  soft  blue  eyes, 
beaming  with  love  and  light — the  delicate 
mouth,  so  full  of  tenderness,  and  so  sweet  with 
smiles,  were  no  longer  there.  Thus  shrunk- 
en and  pale  were  all  her  features;  and  the 
child-like,  loving  innocence  that  was  in  her 
eyes,  had  departed.  She  did  not  smile  ;  there 
was  no  light  in  her  face  ;  but,  instead,  she 
gazed  with  a  cold,  fixed  look,  at  her  father. 

"  Marion  !"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up.  But, 
as  he  approached,  she  retreated  a  step  or  two ; 
while  her  eyes,  in  which  burned  a  strange  lus- 
tre, were  fixed  intently,  and  he  felt  sternly, 
upon  him. 

"  Marion  !"  said  the  father  again,  "  Marion  ! 
Are  you  my  long-lost  child  ?  or  has  a  demon 
come  to  mock  me  ?" 

A  sudden  change  passed  over  the  face  of 
Marion.  There  was  a  bitter  smile  upon  her 
lips,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Heaven  knows  I  am  not  an  angel,"  she 
said  ;  "  though,  if  you  had  not  cast  me  off  at 
my  first  disobedience,  I  ought  still  to  have  been 
as  innocent  as  when  my  mother  died  and  left 
me,  her  only  legacy,  in  your  hands.  What  I 
have  suffered,  God  only  can  tell !  Scores  of 
times  have  I  sat,  in  the  dark  and  chilly  night, 
upon  the  door-stone  of  this  my  father's  house, 


THE     VESPER    BELL. 


339 


and  wept — wept  that  the  past,  with  its  innocence 
and  joy,  had  departed  for  ever ;  and  then,  with 
a  softened  heart,  I  have  risen  to  ask  admission 
to  the  old  house  ;  but  the  remembrance  of  ypur 
words  would  come  back,  and  I  have  turned 
away.  Oh  !  it  is  a  cruel  thing  for  a  father  to 
turn  away  from  his  child, '^s  you  turned  from 
me,  for  her  first  wrong  step.  I  erred — fatally 
erred  ;  but  that  error  was  a  light  one  to  those 
into  which  I  have  since  fallen,  when  alone  in 
my  weakness,  and  under  circumstances  of 
strong  temptation.  I  had  no  father,  no  friend 
to  whom  I  could  fly  for  counsel  or  succor.  A 
sheep  in  the  midst  of  wolves,  and  the  shepherd 
far  away,  is  it  any  wonder  that  I  fell  ?" 

The  father  shrunk  back  a  pace  or  two  ;  his 
heart  seemed  as  if  it  would  rend  with  anguish. 
He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  mur- 
mured— 

"  Oh,  that  she  had  died  in  her  beauty  and 
innocence !" 

There  was  the  silence  of  death  in  the  room. 
For  minutes  he  remained  thus  shutting  out  the 
blasting  image  of  his  fallen  child,  every  moment 
expecting  to  hear  other  and  more  dreadful 
words.  But  all  remained  still  as  the  grave. 
Slowly,  at  length,  he  removed  his  hands  and 
looked  up. 

The  loving  eyes  of  Marion,  so  full  of  truth 
and  innocence,  were  looking  calmly  upon  him, 
and  the  lips  of  the  blessed  image,  parting  in  a 
gentle  smile,  seemed  as  if  alxjut  to  speak.  Mr. 
Librand  was  not  standing  on  the  floor,  but  was 
seated  where  Sie  sat,  when,  but  a  short  time 
before,  he  had  looked  at  the  picture  of  his  child, 
and  murmured — 

"  Oh !  that  those  h'ps  had  langoage." 

He  had  awakened  from  a  fearful  dream. 
"  Thank  (lod !"  he  said,  fervently,  so  soon 


as  he  felt  really  assured  that  Marion  had  indeed 
gone  down  to  her  grave,  pure  and  innocent. 

For  a  long  time,  with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the 
floor,  did  the  merchant  sit  and  think.  What 
the  character  of  his  thoughts  was,  may  be 
inferred  from  the  audible  utterance  of  these 
words : 

"  Yes,  yes.  Let  me  say  it  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  Thy  will  be  done ;"  and  his  eyes 
were  lifted  involuntarily  upward.  "  She  has 
been  taken  from  the  evil  to  come,  and  I  will  be 
thankful." 

On  the  next  day,  as  Mr.  Librand  was  walk- 
ing towards  his  place  of  business,  he  started, 
involuntarily,  at  meeting  the  very  man  he  had 
seen  in  his  dream.  Tliere  was  a  young  and 
gaily  dressed  lady  on  his  arm.  The  merchant 
sighed  as  he  passed  on  ;  and  then  he  remem- 
bered that  this  very  man  had,  on  several  occa- 
sions, shown  more  than  a  mere  polite  attention 
to  Marion.  A  shudder  went  through  him; 
but  this  was  as  quickly  succeeded  by  a  most 
profound  and  thankful  acknowledgment  of  the 
truth,  that  all  things  are  under  the  direction  of 
an  infinitely  wise  and  good  God,  and  that  with- 
out Him  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground. 

"  Thy  will*  be  done,"  was  again  the  almost 
spontaneous  utterance  of  his  lips  and  heart. 

From  that  time  the  merchant  was  changed. 
The  old  family  pew  was  no  longer  vacant  on 
the  Sabbath,  nor  was  the  expression  of  his  face 
so  cold  and  stern  as  it  had  been  since  the 
death  of  his  child.  That  just  what  he  had  seen 
in  his  dream  would  have  takeff  place  had  Marion 
lived,  he  did  not  believe ;  but  he  received  the 
vision  as  a  full  explanation  of  the  bereaving 
providence,  and  ever  after  felt  satisfied  that 
Marion  bad  been  taken  at  the  fittest  moment 


IPIEIIg   YlgSIPIgIS  BlgllrlL. 


BX     MARIA    E.    BISBEE. 


The  bell  is  tolling,  vesper  hour. 
And  all  confess  its  magic  power; 
Through  rock  and  glen  it  steals  along, 
While  echo  still  the  sounds  prolong. 
See  you  not  the  children  stealing. 
Around  their  mother  softly  kneeling  ? 
With  hands  and  eyes  uplifted  there. 
They  whisper  forth  their  evening  prayer. 


Oh !  dear  to  me  is  the  vesper  hour, 
When  seated  in  our  orange  Bower  ! 
The  perfume  wafted  by  the  breeze— 
The  dew  drops  glittering  on  the  trees — 
The  balmy  air,  so  mild  and  clear — 
Ah  !  these  to  memorj'  still  are  dear. 
Some  tell  the  pleasure  of  pomp  and  power ; 
Far  dearer  to  me  is  the  Vesper  Hour. 


340 


THE    EMIGRANTS. 


'fflEIIg   HMU^IEAMirSs 


OR,    THE    SECRET    OF    SUCCESS, 


BY    MRS.    M.     S.     B.     DANA. 


It  was  just  about  the  hour  of  noon,  on  a  clear 
winters  day,  when  a  staunch  vessel,  which  had 
weathered  several  severe  Atlantic  storms,  ap- 
proached, with  all  sails  set,  the  noble  harbor  of 
Charleston,  South  Carolina.  The  ship  was 
literally  crowded  with  passengers ;  young  and 
old,  rich  and  poor,  joyful  and  sad ;  a  hetero- 
geneous mass  of  human  beings.  Upon  the 
quarter-deck  stood  many  a  merry  group,  who, 
having  just  thrown  aside  their  motley  sea-attire, 
and  dressed  themselves  in  clean  and  wholesome 
shore  equipments,  could  scarcely  restrain  the 
buoyancy  of  spirits  called  forth  by  the  occasion. 
Many,  after  a  longer  or  shorter  sojourn  in 
foreign  lands,  were  now  returning  home  to 
greet  their  numerous  friends  ;  while  others 
were  eagerly  anticipating  the  pleasure  of  a 
speedy  introduction  to  novel  scenes,  and  new, 
and  perchance  valuable  acquaintances. 

The  pilot,  who  was  to  conduct  the  vessel 
over  the  somewhat  dangerous  bar  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  harbor,  had  jumped  aboard  from 
his  little  craft,  about  an  hour  before,  and  was  now 
strutting  to  and  fro  with  a  consequential  air,  in 
all  the  pride  of  his  brief  though  absolute  author- 
ity ;  issuing  his  incessant  orders  in  a  voice  so 
stentorian,  that  it  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  the  thunder  of  great  Jupiter  himself. 

But  neither  with  the  passengers  of  the 
quarter-deck,  nor  with  the  consequential,  round- 
bodied  little  pilot,  has  this  veracious  history 
anything  to  do ;  and  therefore,  turning  our 
backs,  as  civilly  as  may  be,  upon  le  bon  ton  of 
the  vessel,  let  us  straightway  introduce  ourselves 
into  the  steerage,  and  look  about  us  there,  as 
well  as  the  darkness  will  allow.  Wo  propose 
not  to  favor  our  readers  with  any  specimens  of 
"  high  life  below  stairs,"  "  romance  in  humble 
life,"  or  the  like ;  but  intend  to  deliver  '•  a  plain, 
unvarnished  tale,"  and  relate  circumstances 
none  the  less  interesting  for  being  natural  and 
uncmbellished. 


In  the  gloomy  recesses  of  the  steerage,  a 
scene  of  the  same  nature  with  that  which  had 
been  already  enacted  in  the  cabin,  was  now 
going  forward,  only  in  an  aggravated  form. 
There  was  scrubbing  and  scolding,  there  was 
combing  and  cursing,  there  was  dressing  and 
drubbing.  Obstreperous  little  ones,  who  evi- 
dently did  not  understand  the  character  of  the 
times  upon  which  they  had  fallen,  nor  compre- 
hend tiie  reasons  why  they  should  not  still  be 
allowed  to  enjoy  their  liberty,  and  revel  in  their 
accustonjed  filtli,  gave  loud  and  hearty  tokens 
of  their  wounded  sensibilities,  and  danced,  and 
kicked,  and  screamed,  with  continually  increas- 
ing vigor,  battling  manfully  for  their  hitherto 
accorded  rights,  and  disputing  heroically  every 
inch  of  ground. 

Yet,  amid  this  scene  of  dire  confusion,  there 
were  some  calm  hearts,  and  composed,  though 
care-worn  countenances.  There  was  one  fam- 
ily, consisting  of  seven  persons,  which  a  dis- 
criminating observer  would  immediately  have 
singled  out  from  all  the  rest.  Amid  the  general 
turmoil,  their  quiet  demeanor,  and  the  look  of 
lofty  resignation  which  sat  upon  their  faces, 
could  not  fail  to  attract,  nay,  even  to  rivet  the 
attention  of  the  bystander.  We  s!:all,  for  the 
sake  of  convenience,  bestow  upon  them  the 
fictitious  name  of  Clarke.  There  were,  as  I 
have  said,  seven  persons  ;  the  father  and  mother, 
one  daughter  of  seventeen,  and  four  boys,  of  the 
ages  of  nine,  seven,  four,  and  two  years,  re- 
spectively. They  were  an  Irish  family,  pos- 
sessing all  the  lofty  enthusiasm  of  their  country- 
men, together  with  more  tlian  a  common  share 
of  quiet,  unpretending  fortitude.  The  mother 
was  one  of  a  thousand,  for,  though  the  father 
was  by  no  means  destitute  of  a  strong  and  lofty 
tone  of  character,  she  it  was,  especially,  who, 
like  a  ministering  angel,  comforted  them  in 
sorrow,  strengthened  them  in  weakness,  and 
aroused    them    in    despondency.     Possessing 


THE     EMIGRANTS. 


241 


naturally  a  superior  mind,  she  had  secured  for 
herself  a  remarkably  solid  education,  and  thus 
appeared  fixr  above  the  humble  station  in  which 
she  was  now  moving.  She  was  the  main-stay 
of  the  family — their  unyielding  bulwark.  We 
shall  hereafter  learn  the  secret  of  her  success. 

Among  these  passengers  there  was  }'et  an- 
other of  a  somewhat  different  stamp,  but  our 
history  includes  him  likewise.  Patrick  Mulli- 
gan was  a  free-hearted, open-handed, high-souled 
young  man ;  a  genuine  Irishman ;  unsuspecting 
and  improvident,  possessing  far  more  heart  than 
head,  more  heartiness  than  heedfulness.  You 
could  not  help  liking  Patrick,  as  you  looked 
upon  his  open,  ruddy,  Irish  face ;  and,  espe- 
cially, as  you  gazed  into  his  round,  clear,  Irish 
eye — that  peculiar  eye  so  characteristic  of  the 
nation — the  heart  of  the  spectator,  if  he  had  a 
heart,  would  unconsciously  warm  towards  him. 
In  his  own  country,  he  had  been  a  neighbor  of 
the  Clarkes,  and  now,  both  father  and  mother 
being  dead,  he  had  joined  their  fortunes,  and 
was  watched overand  cared  for  by  Mrs.  Clarke, 
as  if  he  had  been  her  own  dear  son.  She  found 
him  wild  and  wayward,  it  is  true;  but  what 
cannot  judicious  kindness  accomplish  ?  It  was 
Mrs.  Clarke's  fervent  belief  that  nothing  could 
stand  before  it ;  that  no  heart,  however  wickedly 
disposed,  could  resist  its  constant  influence. 
We  must  add  that  Patrick  Mulligan  was  the 
undeclared  lover  of  Bridget  Clarke. 

And  now,  behold  the  vessel  arrived  ;  all  her 
passengers  ashore ;  all  quietness,  where,  so 
late,  confusion  reigned  supreme.  The  Clarke 
family,  with  young  Mulligan,  had  domesticated 
themselves  in  obscure  lodgings  in  that  portion 
of  the  city  called  "  the  Neck."  Nor  were  they 
without  their  sufferings.  A  succession  of  mis- 
fortunes had  befallen  them,  both  before  and 
since  they  had  left  their  country  ;  bad  crops, 
long  sicknesses,  and  corresponding  doctor's 
bills,  deaths,  and  funeral  expenses  ;  and  finally, 
shipwreck,  with  its  terrible  losses — all  these 
had  come  upon  them ;  so  that  now  they  found 
themselves  in  a  strange  land,  destitute  of  even 
the  necessaries  of  life. 

But  they  lost  no  time  and  wasted  no  strength 
in  complaining;  this  would  have  been  mad- 
ness, and,  so  far  from  helping  them  out  of  their 
troubles,  would  have  been  an  infinite  aggrava- 
tion to  them.  If  work  was  anywhere  to  be  had, 
they  were  determined  to  find  it ;  and  when  they 
had  found  it,  faithfully  and  cheerfully  to  do  it 
But  where  were  they  to  procure  employment  ? 
To  whom  were  they  to  apply  ?    It  was  not  the 


case  in  Charleston,  as  in  the  northern  cities, 
that  the  poor,  in  their  extremity,  could  wend 
their  way  to  inteUigence  offices,  and  perchance 
find  employment.  So  they  knew  not  what  steps 
to  take.  "  Bnt,  at  any  rate,"  said  they  among 
themselves,  "  we  can  but  try."  "  The  man 
who  tries"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  "has  already 
more  than  half  succeeded."  Accordingly,  one 
morning,  after  a  poor  and  scanty  breakfast,  Mr. 
Clarke  and  Patrick  sallied  forth  together  in 
search  of  work. 

Meanwhile,  the  mother  took  her  seat  upon  a 
log  by  the  empty  fire-place — for  chair  or  fire 
had  they  not — and  patiently  darned  and  patch- 
ed the  whole  long  morning  through,  occasion- 
ally raising  her  eyes  to  give  a  look  of  encour- 
agement to  Bridget  and  the  boys,  who  were  por- 
ing over  a  few  tattered  books,  and  trying  their 
best  to  teach,  and  to  be  taught.  By  and  by,  the 
allotted  tasks  being  over,  the  boys  threw  aside 
their  books,  and  tried,  for  their  motter's  sake,  to 
get  up  one  of  their  old  merry  plays.  Still  the 
morning  wore  heavily  away.  The  sensation 
of  hunger  is  no  very  pleasant  one,  and  this, 
considering  what  they  had  eaten  for  the  three 
preceding  days,  they  could  not  help  feeling. 
Yet  hope  whispered  to  them  all,  "  By  and  by 
our  absent  ones  will  return,  and  who  knows 
what  good  tidings  they  may  bring  !"  Twelve 
o'clock  arrived — they  could  plainly  hear  the 
strokes  of  a  neighboring  clock — one,  two,  three 
o'clock  had  come,  and  they  had  not  returned. 
Mrs.  Clarke  looked  pale  and  exhausted,  but 
calmly  resolute.  No  human  eye  could  discern 
the  conflict  in  her  soul,  the  obstinately  intruding 
anxieties,  the  frightful  imaginings,  nor  the 
strong  resolving,  the  earnest  petitioning.  She 
pressed  her  pale  lips  closely  together,  and  strove 
to  smile. 

At  length,  at  nightfall,  came  the  wanderers 
home.  But  they  brought  nothing  with  them, 
nothing — not  even  hope  ;  and  Mrs.  Clarke  was 
obliged,  as  usual,  to  console  and  encourage  them 
all.  "  Never  mind,"  said  she, "  let  us  go  supper- 
less  to  bed  ;  we  may  get  something  to  do  to- 
morrow." 

"  Always  to-morrow,  always  to-morrow  !" 
said  her  husband,  quite  impatiently,  as  he  sat 
on  one  end  of  the  log  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "To-morrow  will  not  help  us  to  live  to- 
day." The  children,  poor  little  creatures,  con- 
trolled themselves  as  long  as  they  could  ;  but 
hearing  now  their  father's  complaining  tones, 
tiiey  all  began  to  cry,  though  silently,  and  with- 
out any  petulance. 


;>42 


THE    EMIGRANTS. 


"  You  had  better  go  to  the  baker's  at  the  cor- 
ner, father,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  addressing  her 
husband  ;  "  tell  him  frankly  our  sufferings,  and 
entreat  him,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  to  let  us 
have  a  loaf  to  keep  the  children  from  starving. 
Tell  him  we'll  be  sure  to  pay  him  some  time  or 
other,  for  God  has  not  forsaken  us,  and  we'll  \ 
come  out  of  this  trouble  yet." 

"  Mother,  I  cannot,"  replied  the  husband ; 
"  the  dark  hour  is  on  me  know,  and  I  haven't 
the  heart  to  speak  to  a  human  being." 

"  Well,  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  soothing- 
ly, and  yet  decidedly.  "  I'll  go  to  the  baker's 
myself.  Sit  you  there,  honey,  and  do  what  you 
can  to  keep  the  children  warm.  Don't  cry, 
darlings  ;  mother'll  come  back  soon,  and,  may 
be,  fetch  a  loaf  of  bread  with  her." 

So  saying,  she  departed,  wrapping,  ere  slie 
went,  an  old  blanket  shawl  around  the  two 
youngest  children,  as  they  sat,  huddled  together 
on  the  floor.  Many  prayers  went  with  her,  for, 
as  Isaid  before,  she  was  ihe  ministering  angel 
of  the  family,  and  always  inspired  them  with 
strength  for  the  present,  and  hope  for  the  future. 
It  was  Saturday  night,  and  there  was  a  crowd 
in  the  baker's  shop  ;  but  she  resolutely  entered, 
and  took  her  stand  to  wait  her  turn  for  being 
served.  There  was  that  about  her,  however, 
which  at  first  sight  inspired  respect,  and  so 
the  shopman  soon  addressed  her  with,  "  Well, 
madam,  what  will  you  have  ?" 

"  I  would  have  bread  for  my  starving  chil- 
dren," replied  the  woman ;  "  but  I  have  no  mo- 
ney. Let  me  have  some  bread,"  she  continued, 
her  voice  beginning  to  falter,  "  let  me  have  some 
for  the  love  of  Heaven,  and  I'm  sure  we'll  be 
able  to  pay  you  hereafter.  If  not,  God  will  re- 
ward those  who  help  the  needy." 

The  shopman  looked  at  her  sternly,  and 
shook  his  head,  but  he  quailed  before  the 
searching,  agonized  glance  of  her  eye.  "  No," 
he  said  at  length ;  "  I  work  hard  to  support  my 
own  family,  and  I  have  nothing  to  give  to  beg- 
gars." 

Mrs.  Clarke  replied  firmly,  though  without 
the  slightest  appearance  of  resentment,  "  I  am 
no  beggar,  sir ;  I  ask  you  for  bread,  with  a  prom- 
ise of  future  payment,  if  not  from  us,  from 
Heaven.''  She  spoke  witli  all  the  eloquence  of 
unmitigated  agony,  and  her  eye  kindled,  as  she 
raised  her  thin  pale  hand  in  unconscious  excite- 
ment with  the  earnestness  of  her  speech.  The 
crowd  liad  gathered  round  her,  and  were  watch- 
ing the  scene  with  the  most  intense  interest ; 
for  there  is  something  in  genu'me  feeling  which 


at  once  finds  its  way  to  the  universal  h:!!inii 
hejTt. 

The  baker  seemed  to  waver  in  his  stern  res- 
olution, and  laid  his  hand  upon  a  loaf  of  bread, 
which  stood  upon  the  shelf;  but  his  evil  genius 
was  soon  again  at  work. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  at  length  he  said.  "  I've 
been  imposed  upon  so  many  times  that  I  have 
been  obliged  to  make  a  rule  not  to  give  to  people 
whom  I  do  not  know.  I  would  not  be  doing 
justice  to  my  family  if  I  gave  a  loaf  of  bread 
to  everybody  that  chose  to  ask  for  it." 

Mrs.  Clarke  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  but 
at  length  she  replied  ; 

"  Oh,  sir !  may  you  never  know  what  it  is 
to  ask  for  a  morsel  in  God's  name,  and  be  re- 
fused. But,  sir,"  she  continued,"  I  cannot  even 
now  believe  that  you  are  in  earnest ;  I  cannot 
think  that  you  will  let  us  starve  !  For  the  love 
of  God,  do  not  send  me  empty  away." 

She  had  conquered  !  The  baker  took  three 
large  loaves  from  his  shelf,  and  handed  them  to 
her,  while  she,  with  her  eyes  now  full  of  tears, 
could  only  articulate : 

"  God  bless  you,  sir." 

Heaven  helps  those  who  help  themselves. 
As  Mrs.  Clarke  turned  to  leave  the  shop,  more 
than  one  kind  hand  was  stretched  forth  with  its 
offering.  Some  offered  money,  and  some 
offered  bread.  Having  enough  for  present  ne- 
cessities, she  declined  these  offerings  with  many 
thanks  ;  "  but,"  added  she,  "  we  are  strangers, 
and  do  not  know  where  to  get  employment ;  if 
you  can  help  us  to  get  work,  we  will  thank  and 
bless  you."  And  then,  having  given  informa- 
tion where  they  could  be  found,  in  case  any  one 
had  work  to  give  them,  such  work  as  could  be 
done  by  men,  women,  or  children,  she  bowed 
kindly  to  all  around  her,  and  quickly  sought  her 
home. 

Over  the  short  space  between  the  baker's 
shop  and  her  humble  dwelling  she  rather  flew 
than  walked.  Oh,  what  relief  and  joy  she  was 
carrying  to  her  household  !  How  quickly  the 
children  dried  their  tears  and  ran  to  ease  her  of 
her  precious  burden ! 

"  God  is  always  with  you,  mother,"  said  her 
husband.  "  What  is  the  reason  you  never  fail 
in  that  which  you  set  out  to  do  ?" 

"  Because,  father,"  she  replied,  "  I  endeavor 
to  be  always  sure  that  I  am  doing  what  is  right, 
and  that  assurance  gives  me  courage.  I  near- 
ly came  home  to-night,  though,  without  any 
bread." 

"  But  you  put  your  trust  in  God,  mother," 


MY     MOTHER'S    BIRTH-DAY. 


243 


said  the  husband,  "and  made  another  trial; 
wasn't  that  the  way  ?" 

"  Y'es  I  have  strong  faith  in  God,  and  in  man 
to«),"  replied  the  wife.  "  It  is  because  we  do 
not  expect  (o  find  goodness  in  our  fellow-men, 
and  do  not  encourage  its  development,  that  wo 
no  oftener  find  it  In  more  senses  than  one  I 
believe  that '  he  that  seeketh,  findeth.'  If  a  man 
seeks  for  evil  in  his  fellow-men,  he  is  sure  to 
find  it;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  seeks 
and  expects  goodness,  that  finds  he  like- 
wise. I  would  not  lose  my  faith  in  human  na- 
ture for  the  world  ;  it  has  carried  me  through 
many  a  discouraging  encounter.  But  I  never 
yet  have  found  the  heart  that  had  not  some  soft, 
tender  spot  about  it,  which  could  be  reached  by 
judicious  means." 

"  You  never  gave  me  up,  IVIrs.  Clarke,"  chimed 
in  Patrick  Mulligan,  munching  meanwhile  a 
crust  of  bread.  "Y^ou  never  gave  me  up, 
though  everj'body  else  did.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  your  unwearied  patience,  your  kindness, 
your  trust  in  me,  when  there  seemed  so  little 
ground  for  trust,  where  would  I  be  now  ?  what 
would  1  be  .'  Oh,  Pat,  my  darlin' !  ye  owe 
ivrything  to  Mrs.  Clarke  !" 

"I  begin  to  think  you  are  right,  mother,"  said 
Mr.  Clarke,  "  in  thinking  better  of  men  than  I 
do;  t  begin  to  think  your  philosophy  is  a 
rounder  one  than  mine ;  at  aU  events,  it  brings 


forth  better  fruits.     I  have  some  faith  in  God, 
but  very  httle,  I  confess,  in  men." 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  '*  I'll  tell 
you  how  I  reason  about  it.  Man  was  originally 
made  in  the  image  of  his  Creator,  and  it  be- 
comes us  to  do  all  w€  can  to  restore  that  lost 
or  hidden  likeness.  Now,  I  am  constantly  on 
the  watch  for  it.  I  beUeve  it  is  there,  though 
so  unquestionably  dimmed,  nay,  though  almost 
efiaced.  By  continually  addressing  myself  to 
the  principle  of  goodness,  if  there  is  the  small- 
est remnant  of  it  left,!  am  sure  to  find  it.  We  are 
now  in  a  strange  land  ;  but,  I  tell  you,  we  shall 
find  friends,  and  rise  yet  out  of  this  gloom j 
abyss  into  which  we  seem  to  have  fallen.  I 
am  sure  of  it ;  even  this  night  I  have  seen  in- 
dications of  it,  and,  depend  upon  it,  on  Monday 
morning  some  of  those  kind  persons  I  saw  ia 
the  baker's  shop  will  come  to  ofier  us  employ- 
ment, and  the  means  of  living.*  Ah !  my 
children  !"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  inter- 
esting group,  who,  having  satisfied  their  appe- 
tites, were  gazing  earnestly  into  their  mother's 
speaking  countenance — "  Ah,  my  children  ! 
the  secret  of  all  the  success  I  have  ever  had  in 
life  has  been  my  faith  in  God  and  in  myfdlow- 
men  ;  and  just  so  far  as  I  have  lost  this  com- 
pound, though  not  inharmonious  faith,  has  my 
evil  star  been  in  the  ascendant." 

*  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  state  that  these  cheering  pie- 
dictions  were  abandantly  rerified. 


MY  Eff(D!PIEIIglE^S   18 UlSfM ->!!]) AY. 


Mother,  thy  birth-day !     Let  me  bring 

Unto  a  hallowed  shrine. 
The  sweetest  strain  that  poets  sing 

Upon  a  theme  divine. 
Oh !  could  an  angel  tune  my  lyre. 

E'en  as  I  swept  the  strings. 
My  lips  would  bum  with  hallowed  fiie 

To  give  Love's  tribute  wings. 

I  bless  thee,  mother,  for  thy  care 

Born  with  my  earliest  breath, 
For  faith  which  sanctified  thy  prayer. 

And  love  that  knows  not  death- 
I  bless  thee  for  each  kindly  word 

When  health  adorned  my  brow. 
For  every  tone  of  pity  heard 

yVhen  sickness  bade  me  bow. 


And  now  that  age  hath  left  its  trace 

Where  once  the  roses  smiled. 
Dearer,  far  dearer  is  thy  face 

To  thy  maturer  child ! 
The  past  hath  shown  a  heavy  cloud 

Which  veiled  thy  spirit's  light. 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  proud 

Have  left  thy  longing  sight ! 

But  others  live  to  bless  thee  still, 

To  blend  thy  sacred  name 
With  prayer  and  song,  while  pulses  thrih 

To  catch  the  filial  flame. 
May  the  new  year  that  opes  to^y 

Grow  brighter  as  it  flies  ! 
Though  all  thine  earthly  flowers  decay, 

Their  perfume  never  dies.      H.  J.  W. 


344 


HANNAH    MORE     AND    MDE.    DE     STAEL. 


M^Hl^AISI  m©m   AM®   MIDI,   SDIg   Sf  AIIIL.0 


BY     A     SCHOOL     GIRL. 


EvEKY  age  has  had  its  great  men — great  in 
goodness  and  truth ;  and  every  age,  too,  has 
had  its  master-spirits  of  wickedness,  that  have 
scattered  error  and  desolation  abroad,  some  of 
whom  have  turned  the  place  that  bloomed  with 
the  beauty  of  Eden  to  a  howling  waste,  as  if 
the  sweep  of  a  tornado  had  passed  over  it,  or 
the  breath  of  the  deadly  simoom 

The  same,  on  a  less  imposing  scale,  is  true 
of  woman.  While  every  age  has  furnished  il- 
lustrious examples  of  true  greatness  in  woman, 
every  age  has  also  instances  of  the  most  lament- 
able waste  of  mind,  or  unsanctified  intellectual 
greatness.  Every  being  has  somewhat  in  his 
character  of  the  elements  of  real  greatness. 
The  proportion  in  which  these  elements  com- 
bine, and  the  circumstances  which  modify  tliem 
during  the  changes  through  which  character 
passes  to  its  full  formation,  are  all  that  makes 
the  difference. 

Hannah  More  and  Mde.  De  Stael  acted  an 
important  part  in  the  great  drama  of  human 
life.  Ona  felt  that  to  act  well'  her  part,  was 
necessary  to  the  perfection  of  the  scene  in 
which  she  was  to  appear,  and  which  had  some 
unknown,  but  real  and  close  connection  with 
the  grand  coming  scene  concealed  behind  the 
curtain ;  the  other  acted  for  effect,  to  make  an 
impression,  regardless  whether  the  tendency  of 
such  impression  was  to  elevate  or  depress  the 
Boul. 

Hannah  More  felt  that  life  was  a  relative  ex- 
isti:;nce,  and  that  its  value  and  importance  con- 
sisted in  its  relation  to  eternity ;  neither  did  she 
look  at  the  eternity  of  human  existence,  in  the 
abstract  sense,  which  could  give  but  a  faint  im- 
pression of  the  number  and  vastness  of  the  re- 
lations of  the  present  life  ;  but  her  conception 
of  life  was  formed  under  tlie  conviction  of  the 
truth,  that  the  character  in  the  present  state  is, 
as  it  were,  a  great  centre  of  radiation,  and  that 
all  the  influences  of  all  its  actions  are  deathless 
as  itself— aye,  parts  of  itself, — each  of  which  is 
a  living,  moving,  acting  spirit,  meeting  contin- 


uaMy,  and  affecting  other  spirits — either  to  pour 
darkness  on  their  downward  course,  or  to  bless 
by  gilding  their  upward  pathway,  and  by  kind- 
ling a  heavenly  radiance  around  tliem,  that  shall 
shine  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day,  and 
be  reflected  back  from  innumerable  points  to 
the  centre  from  which  they  radiated,  so  that 
the  whole  soul  shall  be  full  of  light.  And  this 
is  truth.  It  is  a  law,  that  the  soul  which  shuts 
up  itself  in  itself,  like  a  light  in  a  metallic  urn, 
and  casts  no  light  on  approaching  years,  will 
meet  them  in  starless  night ;  while  the  soul 
whose  life  is  one  continued  blaze  of  love,  sees 
in  perspective  ages  myriads  of  other  spirits 
shining  like  suns  by  the  borrowed  light  of  its 
own  effulgence. 

With  these  views  Hannah  More  marked  out 
her  course,  feeling  that  eve'.y  act  and  event 
was  a  link  in  the  great  chain  reaching  back  to 
the  fall  of  man,  and  forward  to  his  final  re- 
demption ;  and  her  life  was  a  thread  of  golden 
light,  and  the  running  sands  of  her  glass  were 
assiduously  numbered,  and  turned  to  the  best 
possible  account. 

But  Mde.  De  Stael — she  seems  never  to  have 
thought,  that  upon  every  moment  of  life  an 
eternity  is  dependent — that  every  moment  of 
life  is  an  instrument  by  which  an  eternity  of 
happiness  may  be  secured  or  lost.  She  seems 
to  have  forgotten  that  in  her  life  she  held  a  fear- 
ful, and  at  the  same  time  a  priceless  posses- 
sion, and  that  He  who  gave  it,  with  the  rich 
stores  of  mind  she  held  in  trust,  would  demand 
an  account  of  her  stewardship.  While  we  look 
upon  Hannah  More  as  a  polar  star,  shining  with 
a  steady  unchanging  liyht  in  the  literary  hea- 
vens, showing  the  youthful,  unskilled  female 
mariner  the  direction  in  which  her  barque  is 
driven,  and  how  to  swing  her  sails,  to  escape 
the  reefs  and  sand-banks  that  lie  in  the  passage 
to  the  higldands  of  intellectual  and  moral  ex- 
cellence— we  regard  Mde.  De  Stael  as  a  brill- 
iant meteor,  which  flashes  for  a  little  time,  daz- 
zles to  blindness  and  disappears,  leaving  the 


HANNAH  MORK  AND  MDK.  UE  SFAEL. 


245 


weary,  storm-tossed  mariner  in  greater  dark- 
ness than  before. 

While  the  voice  of  Mde.  De  Stael  was  sel- 
dom heard  beyond  the  silken  drapery  of  the 
rich  saloon,  or  the  cabinet,  or  her  own  boudoir, 
the  words  of  Hannah  More  were  heard  as  often 
in  the  lowliest  cottage  as  in  the  halls  of  cedar; 
she  opened  the  fountains  of  health  to  the  sick, 
instruction  to  the  ignorant,  truth  to  the  erring, 
and  hope  to  the  stricken  in  heart. 

While  one,  with  impetuous,  eagle  flight, 
sought  the  highest  point  of  honor  as  her  prize, 
and  to  be  the  gaze  and  admiration  of  succeed- 
ing ages,  the  other  passed  beyond  tlie  fame  of 
earthly  glory,  and  fixed  her  eye  upon  a  master 
prize,  far  in  the  distance,  even  at  the  end  of 
life,  towards  which  she  steadily  and  untiringly 
moved,  scorning  to  turn  aside  for  any  earthly 
good,  or  to  grasp  the  trifles  which  involved 
princes,  kings  and  nations,  in  continual  com- 
petition. She  sought  that  crown  of  unfading 
glory  in  the  skies,  that  harp  of  gold,  from  whose 
strings  the  fingers  of  discord  have  pressed  no 
jarring  vibrations. 

To  one.  Fame  had  a  voice,  "  whose  thrilling 
tone  could  bid  each  life-pulse  beat"  with  a 
swifter,  stronger  throb  ;  and  when  she  heard  the 
plaudits  of  a  wondering  world,  she  sang — 

"  Thoa  hast  a  charmed  cap,  O  Fame, 
A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  eartlily  frame 
Aliove  mortaHly." 

But  the  other,  though  she  merited  and  re- 
ceived the  plaudits  of  a  world,  sought  her  hap- 
piness upon  her  own  quiet  hearth-stone,  in 
words  of  home-born  love.  She  had  heard  the 
silvery  voice  of  Fame  floating  over  mountains 
and  waters,  and  had  seen  its  quick  gleaming 
eye,  and  held  its  chalice  to  her  lips,  and  had 
turned  away  from  all ;  for  she  saw  that  whoever 
took  a  draught  of  its  cup,  took  many  drops  of 
untold  bitterness ;  she  saw  that  dark  clouds 
lay  behind  the  bright  coruscations  of  its  sky ; 
and  she  heard  a  sorrowing  echo  borne  upon  the 
next  zephyr  that  followed  its  clarion-call  to 
earthly  immortality.  And  she  said  as  she 
turned  away, 

"  A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thine  eye, 
To  the  sick  lieart  that  doth  hot  long 

For  aid,  for  sympathy — 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on. 
And  tender  accents  tliat  are  gone." 

She  disregarded  the  allurements  of  fame,  not 
only  because  it  brought  no  real  happiness,  but 
because  a  voice  had  commanded  to  seek  not 


the  honor  which  cometh  from  men;  and  to  obey 
iliat  voice  was  eternal  life. 

While  one  would  sooner  have  rushed  into 
the  embrace  of  death,  than  to  have  seen  the 
laurel  wreath,  which  was  to  her  the  most  re- 
splendent gift  of  Heaven,  laid  upon  a  rival  brow, 
the  other  humbly  kissed  the  hard  brown  hand 
of  the  peasant  girl,  who  gave  with  the  beaming 
eye  of  kindness  even  the  soiled  and  faded  flower 
which  she  had  worn  in  her  sash  through  all  the 
labors  of  the  day. 

The  character  and  career  of  Mde.  De  Stae! 
afford  some  lessons  of  emulation,  but  they  have 
also  lessons  of  strong  and  imperative  caution. 
She  stood  on  an  eminence  in  literature,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  genius  and  circumstances,  that 
few  female  minds  can  hope  to  attain,  under  the 
present  state  of  things  ;  but  an  eminence  sur- 
rounded with  dangers — dangers  from  which 
every  female  should  shrink  with  trembling. 
She  was  a  most  extraordinary  and  brilliant  wo- 
man. Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  compli- 
mentary to  her  intellectual  power  and  great- 
ness, than  the  fact,  that  she  made  one  of  the 
boldest  and  most  ambitious  men  that  ever  lived, 
(Napoleon.)  afraid  of  her. 

Oh !  who  would  have  such  a  character  ? 
Who  would  not  rather  be  known  to  an  obscure 
and  humble  few,  and  loved  and  esteemed  in 
that  little  circle,  than  to  have  her  name  known 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  as  a  terror  to  the  most 
terrific  of  men  ?  Who  would  not  rather  cher- 
ish those  softer,  gentler  feminine  traits,  which 
grace  the  writings  and  life  of  Hannah  More  ? 
that  character  which  finds  delight  in  a  sunrise 
or  a  summer  shower,  in  the  opening  buds  of 
Spring,  or  the  changing  hues  of  Autumn,  in 
the  leaping  brooks  and  singing  birds,  and  all 
the  simple,  joyous  melodies  of  nature,  in  har- 
mony with  which  the  universe  itself  moves  on  ? 

Mde.  De  Stael  certainly  exhibits  a  great  de- 
ficiency in  those  qualities  which  characterize  a 
true  woman,  and  her  great  mental  strength  and 
power  cannot  compensate  for  the  want  of  these. 
It  is  said  of  her,  "  Had  Mde.  De  Stael  been 
more  fortunate  in  domestic  life,  she  would  have 
been  less  exclusively  devoted  to  literature,  and 
would  have  sought  for  happiness  in  the  true  des- 
tiny of  a  woman." 

Although  little  is  known  of  her  domestic 
trouble.s,  while  t'ley  excite  a  sympathy  for  her, 
the  fact,  that  they  were  a  snare  and  temptation, 
should  put  those  upon  their  guard  who  have  the 
slightest  tincture  of  hereditary  or  constitutional 
ambition.     It  is  too  often  the  case,  that  a  secret 


246 


HANNAH  MORE  AND  MDE.  DE  STAEL. 


desire  for  literary  fame  is  the  first  cause  of  do-  ^ 
mestic  troubles,  and  afterwards  the  troubles  be- 
come the  assigned  or  imagined  cause  of  a  thirst 
for  distinction.  But  whatever  may  have  been 
the  cause,  it  seems  evident  that  Mde.  De  Stael 
was  under  the  sway  of  ambition — an  insatiable 
and  masculine  ambition.  This  is  seen  in  all 
her  works;  in  her  attempts  to  discuss  great 
and  difficult  questions,  and  in  her  freedom  to 
give  her  opinion  in  matter*  of  great  moment, 
with  but  a  very  superficial  knowledge  of  them, 
for  which  she  was  severely  criticised  by  all  the 
German  scholars  ;  in  her  affectation  of  the 
German  style,  for  which  she  was  reproached  by 
French  critics  ;  in  her  attempts  to  establish  a 
new  political  philosophy,  wliich  caused  dis- 
satisfaction and  dislike,  both  among  the  repub- 
licans and  royalists.  It  is  also  seen  in  her 
efforts  to  revive  an  old  system  of  moral  philoso- 
phy, in  which  she  violently  attacks  the  doctrine 
of  utility,  and  advocates  that  of  sympathy  as  the 
foundation  of  virtue.  It  is  also  seen  in  the 
fact,  that  she  could  reason  upon  politics  with 
greater  freedom  and  ability  than  upon  any  other 
branch  of  philosophy. 

It  was  not  so  with  Hannah  More.  Her  rich- 
est reasonings  were  of-  "  nature's  facts  and 
laws,"  and  she  felt  that  those  "  priceless  les- 
sons of  philosophy,  which  crowd  every  leaf  and 
rain-drop,  every  flower  and  snow-flake,  are  of 
infinitely  more  value  to  the  fine  reflective  spirit 
of  woman,  than  the  coarse  and  chafing  armor 
of  philosophic  combatants."  And  Mde.  De 
Stael  seems,  at  times,  to  have  had  enough  of  the 
woman  revived  in  her,  to  feel  it  too ;  for  she 
says,'  "  Most  women  whose  superior  faculties 
have  inspired  them  with  a  desire  of  renown,  re- 
semble Herminia  clad  in  warlike  armor :  the 
warriors  see  the  helmet,  the  lance,  the  glittering 
plume ;  expecting  to  meet  with  equal  strength, 
they  attack  violently,  and  the  first  blow  reaches 
the  heart. '^  True,  indeed,  it  reaches  the  lieari. 
Would  that  every  woman  could  know  how 
many  woman  hearts  have  been  riven  and  torn 
by  this  unequal  contest — by  occupying  a  place 
which  woman  cannot,  from  the  very  nature  of 
her  constitution,  occupy,  but  at  the  expense  of 
those  numberless  sources  of  happiness  which 
God  has  opened  to  her  only  in  domestic  life.  The 
good  of  the  world  seems  never  to  have  been  her 
motive,  or  to  have  formed  any  part  of  her  plan. 
The  whole  power  of  her  mind  seems  to  have 
been  directed  to  the  single  and  despicable  pur- 
pose of  establishing  for  herself  a  great  name. 
One  of  her  reviewers  says,  "  Few  books  iu 


modem  times,  which  were  not  practical,  nor 
scientific,  nor  directly  subservient  to  the  com- 
forts of  man,  and  the  purposes  of  society,  have 
been  read  so  eagerly  and  universally  and  known 
so  far  as  hers."  Look  at  tiie  words  he  uses — 
"  not  practical,  nor  scientific,  nor  subservient  to 
the  comforts  of  man."  For  what  then  did  she 
write .'  To  be  useful  ?  The  same  reviewer 
says,  "  The  moral  in  some  of  her  works  has 
been  regarded  as  loose,  and  in  all  as  bordering 
on  extravagance  and  mysticism."  Another 
says  of  her  works,  "  Their  morality  is,  or  ra- 
ther is  not,  very  questionable."  Another,  "  The 
subject  of  religion  is  introduced  in  her  works 
rather  for  effect,  than  with  the  intention  of  ex- 
citing a  lively  and  practical  belief  in  its  great 
truths."  And  all  the  known  facts  in  her  case 
seem  to  favor  the  justice  of  these  opinions. 
It  is  related,  by  a  cotemporary  and  friend  of 
Mde.  De  Stael,  that  upon  one  occasion  having 
gone  with  the  beautiful  Mde.  Recamier,  on  a 
pleasure  excursion  on  the  lake  of  Geneva,  a 
storm  came  on,  and  the  parly  narrowly  escaped 
being  drowned.  "  What  a  paragraph,"exclaim- 
ed  Mde.  De  Stael,  "  this  might  have  been  for  a 
newspaper !  With  what  effect  the  editor  might 
have  said,  '  The  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world,  and  the  most  talented  woman  of 
the  age,  have  perished  at  the  same  moment.*  " 
Will  it  ever  be  said  that  one  who  could  remark 
so  indifferently  of  so  near  an  approach  to  the 
grave,  could  have,  in  her  character,  any  ele- 
ment of  that  religion  which  makes  a  just  esti- 
mate and  a  wise  appropriation  of  life  .'  Is  it  mere 
passive  abuse  ?  Does  any  one  think  Hannah 
More  would  have  spoken  thus  ?  And  yet  no- 
thing could  be  more  like  Mde.  De  Stael.  And 
how  could  she,  to  whom  the  great  work  of  life 
was  to  secure  an  imperishable  name,  value  the 
moments  which  were  prolonged  beyond  the 
period  at  which  she  viewed  the  work  of  life  as 
done  ?  How  could  she  look  into  the  measure- 
less vista  of  eternal  ages,  and  trace  the  cause 
of  some  mighty  but  evil  change,  back  to  the 
dreamy  trifles  with  which  she  hurried  through 
this  life  ?  And  even  were  this  power  given  her, 
how  could  she  bring  up  tears  of  penitence  from 
the  soul's  deptlis,  whoso  heart  moved  only  to 
tlie  song  of  festal  glee  or  the  full  trumpet 
tones  of  fame  ?  How  could  she,  whose  eye  was 
dimmed  with  the  dust  of  earthly  courts,  wake 
visions  in  hor  soul  of  the  glory  of  the  heavenly 
courts,  of  which  the  countless  stellar  suns  that 
glitter  in  the  veil  of  night,  are  but  the  dust  that 
lies  between  the  gems  of  its  jeweled  pavements  ? 


# 


i 


Xn    ITALY. 


3V     ^  ,d 


;  Willie  the  v.iit  ot  ^  i  ■  .                                                                      i 

v.r  of    Austria,  had  ^  ma                                                                       t 

Paruia.     A  Bourbou  hwtl  a  life  interest  in  Mo-  5  of  tiie  Poj)e.     WLen  lije  grand  eiupljon  irom 

dor.A,  and  Genoa  uas  treacherously  given  ov>r  <  tlie  iov  of  (lie  castle  took  place,  accompanied 

ind*  of  Piesitjii-ni.     "  >f  cannon,  masses  of  flame,  and 

I 
1 


increased  so  fa«! , 
cessar.    ■••"*■'  •-' 
rilics  1. 


,  on  pain  of  imprison 
a.s  a  man  Raid  to   ? 


one 
tion. 


the  hoi/.   .  aoi  their   <   &.". 


POPE    PIUS    IX.    AND    ITALY. 


247 


IP(DI?Ig  WU-U^  IX.   AmW  H^^ILY 


BY    THE     EDITOH. 


The  most  engrossing  affair  of  Europe  at 
present,  is  the  attitude  the  Roman  Pontiff  has 
assumed,  and  the  probable  result  both  to  him- 
self and  Italy.  Those  acquainted  with  history, 
are  aware  of  the  iniquitous  partition  made  of 
Italy  after  the  downfall  of  Napoleon.  The 
allied  sovereigns  assembled  in  Vienna,  regard- 
ed it  as  so  much  common  plunder.  Venice 
and  Milan  were  given  to  Austria ;  Modena 
sliced  off  for  an  Austrian  prince  who  had 
usurped  the  name  of  Este ;  while  the  wife  of 
Napoleon,  as  the  daughter  of  Austria,  had 
Parma.  A  Bourbon  had  a  life  interest  in  Mo- 
dena, and  Genoa  was  treacherously  given  over 
by  England  into  the  hands  of  Piedmont.  The 
Pope  was  allowed  to  retain  possession  over 
about  1 8, in  Roman  square  miles,  containing 
a  population  of  2,500,000.  Over  this  he  rules  as 
absolute  king.  So  heavy  have  been  his  oppres- 
sions, that  his  kingdom  has  been  reduced  to 
bankruptcy.  The  revenue  has  amounted  to 
only  $10,000,000,  one  quarter  of  which  was 
expended  in  mere  collection.  The  public  debt 
increased  so  fast,  that  constant  loans  were  ne- 
cessary, xmtil  at  length  the  government  secu- 
rities have  all  been  used  up,  and  the  Pontiff  has 
been  compelled  to  mortgage  his  palaces  at 
Rome.  The  legates  and  delegates  ruling  the 
several  provinces,  have  been  notoriously  dis- 
honest and  corrupt ;  even  magistrates  could  be 
bought,  while  men  could  be  imprisoned  cui 
infinitum  on  mere  suspicion.  Six  thousand 
are  computed  to  be  incarcerated  every  year,  or 
one  out  of  every  four  hundred  of  the  popula- 
tion. 

Now,  when  we  add  to  all  these  the  rigorous 
censorship  of  the  press,  the  espionage  of  the 
police,  and  the  relentless  persecution  of  men 
for  their  political  opinions,  to  say  nothing  of 
tne  oppressive  taxes  and  discouragement  of  all 
industry,  we  cannot  be  surprised  at  the  bitter 
feelings  manifested  by  the  people  towards  the 
Pope.  The  stream  of  all  their  troubles  is  traced 
directly  to  the  pontifical  throne.  At  the  feet  of 
the  holy  father  have  hitherto  sunk  all  their 


hopes  and  happiness.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
the  common  people  nourishing  such  hostility 
to  the  Pope.  Said  I  to  a  vetura  driver,  that 
I  had  hired  for  several  days,  "  To-morrow  is 
the  day  for  the  grand  benediction  of  the  Pope 
from  St  Peters."  With  an  indignant  look  he 
replied,  "  It  is  not  a  benediction,  it  is  a  maledic- 
tion." So  at  the  close  of  the  pageantry  of 
holy  week,  as  1  was  standing  and  admiring  the 
fire-works  of  St.  Angelo,  ordered  by  the  Pope, 
I  entered  into  conversation  with  a  well-dressed 
man,  who  astounded  me  with  his  open  contempt 
of  the  Pope.  When  the  grand  eruption  from 
the  top  of  the  castle  took  place,  accompanied 
with  the  roar  of  cannon,  masses  of  flame,  and 
vast  columns  of  smoke,  I  remarked,  it  resembled 
the  infernal  world.  "Yes,"  said  he,  with  a 
sneer,  "  hell  is  Rome  now-a-days."  After  all 
was  over,  I  turned  away  saying,  "  It  is  fin- 
ished." "Yes,"  he  replied,  with  the  same  wither- 
ing sarcasm,  "  another  day  of  our  Lord  and  Sa- 
viour Jesus  Christ."  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
from  this  that  the  Pope  has  been  worse  than 
the  other  sovereigns  of  Italy  ;  he  has  simply 
been  just  like  them — one  of  them — and  a  mere 
creature  of  Austria.  In  Genoa,  spies  of  gov- 
ernment dog  your  footsteps  day  and  night ;  and 
every  family  is  required  to  report  to  the 
head  of  police  in  the  morning,  the  name  of 
any  person,  not  a  member  of  it,  who  chances 
to  sleep  there  over  night,  on  pain  of  imprison- 
ment. 

All  over  Italy,  as  a  man  said  to  me  in 
Rome,  in  answer  to  some  inquiries  respecting 
the  Pope, "  a  person  who  lives  here,  must  wear  a 
bandage  over  his  eyes  and  a  seal  on  his  lips." 
A  corrupt  sovereign,  corrupt  priesthood,  corrupt 
courts,  corrupt  officials — half  of  them  pardoned 
banditti — everywhere  make  a  mockery  of  jus- 
tice, religion  and  human  suffering.  The 
strong  hand  of  power  has  been  crushing  the 
life  out  of  Italy,  and  hence  have  arisen  tlie 
endless  conspiracies  which  have  resulted  only 
in  filhng  Austrian  prisons  with  victims  and 
ships  with  exiles. 


248 


POPE     PIUS    IX.     AND    ITALY. 


Now  it  is  evident,  from  tliis  meagre  outline, 
that  such  a  state  of  things  could  not  long  exist. 
Tlicre  is  a  limit  to  all  oppression,  a  point  where 
desperation  begins  and  revolutions  follow.  Pope 
Gregory  was  a  tool  of  Austria,  and  too  stiij  id  to 
perceive,  or  too  timid  to  prevent,  the  bankruptcy 
and  fast  approaching  ruin  of  his  kingdom, 
let  oppression  take  its  course.  But  the  present 
Pontiff,  on  coming  into  power,  has  had  the  sense 
to  discover  his  true  position,  and  taken  the  only 
course  by  which  to  allay  the  smothered  fires  of 
rebellion,  that  were  burning  portentously  under 
his  throne.  He  knew  the  state  of  the  public 
feeling — that  everything  was  rife  for  an  out- 
break ;  and  had  Cardinal  Lambruschini,  the  old 
Pope's  chief  minister,  been  elected  in  his  place, 
there  doubtless  would  have  been  a  convulsion 
that  would  have  overturned  the  Papal  throne, 
or  ended  in  a  general  massacre  of  the  people. 
But  Pope  Pius  took  his  seat,  and  a  calm — the 
calm  of  expectation  and  of  anxiety — followed. 
He  was  surrounded  with  difficulties — a  bank- 
rupt and  impoverished  kingdom,  a  suffering 
and  maddened  people  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
power  of  Austria  on  the  other.  To  act  for  the 
people  would  bring  down  on  him  the  armies  of 
Austria — to  act  for  Austria,  the  wrath  of  the 
people.  A  few  days  after  his  election,  he 
abolished  the  secret  tribunal  for  political  offend- 
ers ;  he  next  composed  a  council  of  cardinals, 
to  hear  on  a  certain  day  the  grievances  of  any 
one  who  chose  to  come  ;  and  finally  ordered  a 
private  letter-box  to  be  affixed  to  the  Vatican, 
in  which  all  could  drop  their  complaints  and 
petitions.  Still  the  people  scarcely  knew  what 
to  believe :  these  might  all  be  simply  strokes 
of  policy  to  allay  popular  indignation.  He  next 
dismissed  Cardinal  Lambruschini,  but  this 
thing  only  awakened  deeper  anxiety  ;  until  at 
length  his  course  seemed  to  be  clearly  pro- 
nounced, when  he  granted  a  general  amnesty 
to  all  political  offenders.  Rome  stood  thunder- 
struck at  this  bold  movement.  The  prisons, 
with  their  six  thousand  annually  incarcerated 
victims,  threw  open  their  doors.  Exiles  in  every 
part  of  the  world  were  permitted  to  return.  Al- 
most every  family  in  Rome  had  some  connec- 
tion, or  friend,  or  acquaintance,  either  a  prisoner 
or  exile ;  and  hence  the  sudden  joy  wliich  fol- 
lowed. The  city  was  moved  to  its  centre ;  and 
lo!  the  crowd  went  rushing  with  shouts  to  the 
Capitoline  hill,  and  streamed  in  dark  masses 
into  the  arena  of  the  Coliseum,  with  torches 
and  songs — and  the  shouts  from  the  Capitol,  and 
the  shouts  from  the  Coliseum,  met  over  the  old 


Roman  forum,  startling  the  night-bird  from  his 
retreat  amid  the  ruins  of  Caesar's  golden  palace, 
while  the  ivy  on  the  ruins  around  them  rustled 
to  the  breath  of  joy.  At  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  this  vast  throng  stood  under  the  bal- 
cony of  the  Pope's  palace,  and  made  its  mas- 
sive walls  ring  with  "  Long  live  Pius  IX.  !" 
The  Pope  rose  and  looked  on  the  sea  of  head."? 
beneath  him,  and  away  on  Rome  blazing  with 
illuminations ;  and  as  the  deafening  shoutis 
died  away,  he  stretched  forth  his  hands  and, 
with  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes,  blessed  the 
people,  who  received  it  with  tears  and  blessing.? 
in  return.  The  next  day,  as  he  was  returning 
home  in  his  carriage,  the  people  blocked  the 
passage,  and  detaching  the  horses,  themselves 
drew  him  home  amid  acclamations  of  joy. 
Various  reforms  followed  this :  he  lessened  the 
taxes ;  reformed  many  abuses ;  opened  the 
library  of  the  Vatican  ;  disbanded  the  police  of 
the  last  Pope  ;  declared  that  no  man  should  be 
persecuted  for  his  political  opinions  ;  abolished 
many  of  the  secret  tribunals ;  modified  the 
criminal  code  ;  set  on  foot  measures  to  instruct 
the  lower  classes  in  the  different  provinces ; 
allowed  philanthropic  societies  to  be  estab- 
lished ;  and  gave  individual  enterprise  more 
scope.  He  removed  also  the  rigorous  censor- 
ship of  the  press,  and  immediately  a  host  of 
papers  were  started  in  Rome,  some  scientific 
and  some  political.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Austria  would  behold  all  this  with  indiffer- 
ence, or  that  her  en^ssaries  or  bigoted  and 
despotic  cardinals  and  priests  would  submit  in 
silence  to  such  great  changes.  Remonstrance 
after  remonstrance  was  made — threats  mingled 
with  petitions  flooded  the  Papal  palace ;  but  still 
the  resolute  Pontiff  held  his  way.  Once  only  he 
faltered,  and  that  was  in  restoring  the  severe 
censorship  of  the  press,  which  he  the  ne.xt  day, 
at  the  remonstrance  of  four  hundred  printers 
assembled  before  his  palace,  again  removed. 

On  one  holiday,  the  Austrian  ambassador, 
wishing  to  disturb  the  harmony  existing  be- 
tween the  Pontiff  and  his  subjects,  sent  word  to 
the  former,  that  it  would  not  be  safe  for  him 
to  appear  in  public,  as  the  people  were  exaspe- 
rated against  him.  The  Pope  immediately 
sent  messengers  to  ascertain  whether  it  were 
so,  and  finding  it  to  be  false,  boldly  sallied  forth 
on  foot  and  mingled  in  the  crowd.  The  peo- 
ple appreciated  iiis  confidence  in  them,  and 
made  the  heavens  ring  with  their  acclamations 
and  shouts  of  *'  Courage  !  courage  !  Pius  IX. 
Fear  not  Austria— trust  to  your  people." 


POPE    PIUS    IX.     AND     ITALY, 


249 


Soon  after,  conspiracies  were  set  on  foot  to 
assa:?sinate  the  Pope,  which  proved  abortive. 
Last  J  lily,  on  the  day  set  apart  to  celebrate  the 
amnesty,  a  general  massacre  of  the  friends  of 
reform  was  to  take  place,  and  the  person  of  the 
Pope  to  be  seized  and  conveyed  to  Naples.  In  the 
midst  of  the  general  joy,  the  armed  conspirators 
were,  at  a  given  signal,  to  draw  their  daggers 
and  rash  on  the  liberals.  This  infernal  scheme, 
which  embraced  cardinals  and  priests,  was  for- 
tunately discovered  in  time ;  and  a  national 
guard  was  established,  in  which  all  were  eager 
to  enroll  themselves.  Formerly  the  Papal 
army  numbered  but  14,000  men,  while  the  navy 
consisted  of  two  frigates,  two  war-steamers, 
and  a  few  gun-boats  :  now  the  Pontiff  has  a 
large  force  at  his  disposal ;  at  his  bidding  an 
army  of  60,000  men  have  sprung  into  exist- 
ence. In  the  mean  time,  the  Austrian  army 
entered  Ferrara,  one  of  the  Papal  provinces, 
and  looked  threateningly  towards  Rome.  The 
Pope  remonsijates  against  this,  and  the  people 
are  fierce  for  open  hostilities.  Thus  matters 
stand,  while  plans  for  the  improvement  of  the 
people  are  daily  progressing.  Railroads  are  in 
contemplation,  and  the  avenues  of  trade  and 
commerce  thrown  open. 

Now  in  all  this,  it  would  be  unfair  to  say 
that  the  Pope  has  been  actuated  alone  by  mo- 
tives of  policy.  He  is,  doubtless,  a  more  libe- 
ral and  a  better  man  than  his  predecessor.  He 
himself  had  a  brother  in  exile  ;  and  as  a  mis- 
eionary  formerly  to  Chili,  and  afterwards  to 
Buenos  Ayres,  he  has  learned,  like  Louis 
Philippe,  to  regard  the  rights  of  the  people, 
and  respect  their  feelings  and  their  wants. 

Still  policy  has  had  much  to  do  with  the 
course  he  has  taken.  His  travels  in  the  new 
world  opened  his  eyes  to  truths  that  it  became 
him  to  recognize  ;  and  he  saw  plainly,  that  the 
Pontiff  of  1847  could  not  be  the  despot  that  a 
former  age  tolerated.  But  amid  the  general 
excitement  with  which  the  unexpected  liberal- 
ity of  Pius  IX.  is  hailed,  we  must  not  lose 
sight  of  tlie  actual  state  of  things.  The  Pope 
has  done  much ;  but  with  all  his  reforms,  his 
government  is  still  a  despotic  one.  A  criminal 
code  is  there  in  force,  and  municipal  and  pro- 
vincial laws,  and  a  censorship  of  the  press,  and 
an  exercise  of  arbitrary  power,  which,  if  applied 
even  to  the  monarchy  of  England,  would  cause 
a  revolution  that  all  the  standing  armies  of  the 
world  could  not  arrest.  To  read  some  of  the 
papers  of  this  country,  and  listen  to  some  of  the 
public  speeches,  one  would  imagine  that  Pius  IX. 


wished  of  all  things  to  establish  a  repnblican 
form  of  government,  and  lacked  only  the  ability ; 
while  in  truth  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  govern- 
ment on  the  earth,  for  which  he  has  such  a  su- 
preme and  hearty  contempt,  as  for  this  same 
republic  of  the  United  States.  He,  as  well  as 
every  other  monarch  of  Europe,  except  Louis 
Philippe,  is  in  absolute  ignorance  of  this  coun- 
try and  its  resources.  As  a  Catholic  said  in 
New- York  the  other  day,  he  regards  this  coun- 
try simply  as  missionary  ground.  South  Amer- 
ica ranks  far  higher  in  his  estimation,  than  the 
United  States ;  and  I  can  affirm  from  per- 
sonal experience,  that  this  is  almost  the  univer- 
sal opinion  of  Italy.  When  America  is  men- 
tioned, the  Italians  always  think  South  Amer- 
ica is  intended.  So  true  is  this,  that  nine- 
tenths  of  all  the  emigration  from  Italy — and  it 
is  extensive — is  to  South  America ;  and  all  her 
commerce  is  also  with  that  country.  Tliere 
are  but  few  papers  in  Italy,  and  those  never 
speak  of  us  but  to  disparage  us ;  while  our 
literature  is  entirely  shut  out,  on  account  of  its 
republican  tendency.  Independent  of  all  this, 
the  sovereigns  and  statesmen  of  Europe,  to  a 
man,  regard  a  republican  form  of  government 
as  the  most  uncertain,  unstable,  that  could  be 
devised.  They  look  upon  our  experiment  as 
already  proved  a  failure,  and  consider  it  settled 
that  we  shall  soon  break  to  pieces.  Nor  is 
this  strange,  when  we  remember  that  the  ma- 
jority of  our  own  ablest  statesmen  believe  that 
this  Union  will  not  remain  entire  forty  years  to 
come.  Much  less  should  they,  educated  to  be- 
lieve in  a  monarchical  form  of  government,  and 
judging  of  the  mass  of  men  everywhere  by  the 
ignorant,  depraved  and  lawless  multitudes  that 
compose  tlieir  own  population,  have  any  confi- 
dence in  the  permanence  and  stability  of  our, 
institutions.  The  sovereignty  of  the  people  is  to 
them  the  Reign  of  Terror  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. I  make  this  statement  simply  to  say,  that 
we  should  guard  agamst  enacting  follies,  that 
will  only  bring  down  on  us  contempt  and  ridicule, 
A  short  time  since,  a  public  meeting  was 
called  in  New-York,  to  express  sympathy  for 
the  Italians.  This  was  right  and  proper ;  but 
not  content  with  manly  resolutions,  an  address 
was  read  to  the  Pope,  and  voted  to  be  sent  to 
his  Holiness,  and  it  has  gone,  printed  on  elegant 
parchment.  This  address,  written  by  the 
Editor  of  the  Tribune,  \vas  well-meant  but  most 
ill-advised.  Ignorant  of  European  govern- 
ments— of  the  policy  of  European  statesmen — 
of  Italy — he  was  not  the  man  to  draw  up  such  a 


250 


POPK     PIUS    IX.    AND    ITALY. 


letter.  That  ridiculous  epistle  addresses  the  Pope  J 
in  a  tone  of  patronizing  syinpatliy,  taking  the 
ground  that  he  wishes  to  establish  a  constitu- 
tional government;  and  calls  on  him  to  look 
upon  us,  for  a  bright  example  to  cheer  him  on. 
It  bids  him  not  fear  the  despots  around  him,  for 
we  sympathize  with  him.  In  the  first  place, 
the  Pope  will  regard  this  movement  in  New- 
York  as  we.  should  a  mass-meeting  in  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  voting  us  a  complimentary 
letter.  He  will  answer  it  kindly,  patronizingly, 
and  cautiously.  Such  an  address  is  wrong, 
whichever  way  you  take  it.  If  the  Pope  really 
meditated  the  establishment  of  a  constitutional 
government,  nothing  would  embarrass  him 
more  than  such  an  epistle,  and  nothing  tend 
more  to  defeat  his  purpose  ;  for  the  very  states- 
men who  now  uphold  him  in  his  reforms 
would  desert  him,  and  not  a  government  could 
be  found  in  Europe  but  would  be  arrayed 
against  him.  If  he  has  no  such  scheme  or 
wish,  but  regards  all  such  notions  as  "  Utopian" 
and  senseless,  we  shall  appear  simply  ridiculous 
in  his  eyes.  It  will  be  mortifying  to  the  Amer- 
ican traveller  hereafter,  to  have  that  address 
flung  in  his  face  on  the  continent.  The  dis- 
tinguished geaitlemen  who  composed  this  meet- 
ing were  not  to  blame,  for  they  could  not  reject 
it  without  occasioning  discord.  Delicacy  and 
fear  of  trouble  prompted  them  to  let  it  pass ; 
but  ignorance  and  vanity  should  never  be  al- 
lowed to  hold  us  up  to  ridicule.  The  manner 
in  which  that  letter  will  be  received,  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  extracts  of  the 
Pope's  recent  speech  to  his  new  Council  of 
State,  compared  with  parts  of  it.  That  address 
Bays  :  "  We  know  that  you  must  have  already 
resolved  to  encounter  the  untiring  hostility  and 
dread  of  all  the  unjust  or  tyrannical  rulers,  who 
assume  to  lord  it  over  any  portion  of  the  fair 
Italian  peninsula."  This  will  be  news  to  the 
Pope,  who  has  already  struck  hands  with  the 
King  of  Sardinia,  one  of  the  most  unmitigated 
despots  of  Europe.  And  again  :  "  Short  as  our 
national  life  has  been,  it  has  already  demon- 
strated to  every  thoughtful  man,  the  immense 
superiority  of  liberty  to  despotism,"  &c. 

The  Pope    regards    it   as    having   demon- 
strated right  the  reverse.    In  his  address  to  hla 


new  Council,  referring  to  just  such  sentiments 
as  these,  he  says  he  means  to  act  for  the  good 
of  his  subjects,  but  "  without  retrenching  in 
any  degree  the  sovereignty  of  the  Pontificate  ;" 
and  he  says  further,  that  he  has  called  that 
Council  of  State  solely  to  aid  him  in  "  his  sove- 
reign resolutions,  in  which  he  shall  consult  his 
conscience."  That  is,  I  want  ycu  to  understand 
that  I  am  absolute  sovereign  here,  and  intend  to 
reign  as  such.  My  will  is  to  be  law  ;  and  all 
I  wish  of  you  is  to  aid  me  in  carrying  out  that 
will.  That  sovereignty,  he  expressly  states, 
they  are  not  to  meddle  with ;  as  he  intends 
(to  use  his  own  language)  to  transmit  it 
"  full  and  entire"  as  he  received  it.  And  still 
further  on  he  says,  they  "  err  materially  who 
should  see  anything  else  in  the  creation  of  the 
Council  of  State ;"  or  dream,  as  he  emphati- 
cally remarks,  that  it  was  designed  to  be  "  the 
realization  of  their  own  Utopias.'^  He  takes  fire 
at  the  mere  insinuation  that  he  means  to  give 
the  people  power,  or  weaken,  in  any  way,  the 
absolute  sovereignty  he  wields.  He  does  not 
object  to  despotisms,  but  he  does  not  wish  to 
have  his  own  interfered  with.  The  Pontiff  of 
Rome  is  to  be  as  supreme  as  the  Emperor  of 
Austria ;  and  he  wishes  all  to  understand  that  he 
has  no  intention  of  weakening  that  supremacy, 
but,  as  a  conscientious  despot,  not  to  abuse 
it.  He  designs  to  rule  well,  but  yet  to  rule 
alone.  This  is  his  decision,  expressed  before  all 
the  world  ;  and  now,  how  will  our  congratula- 
tions, that  he  is  endeavoring  to  give  Italy  a  libe- 
ral and  constitutional  government,  be  received  ? 
I  venture  to  say,  that  when  that  address  is  re- 
ceived by  the  Pope  and  his  Council,  it  will  be 
regarded  as  the  maddest,  craziest  thing  that 
ever  met  their  eyes.  I  have  thus  spoken  of 
this  address,  because  it  gives  one  a  better  idea 
of  the  movements  and  plans  of  the  Pope  than 
anything  else.  A  comparison  of  our  opinions 
with  his  is  sure  to  set  us  right,  and  give  us  a 
clearer  insight  into  the  principles  and  spirit  of 
the  Pontifical  government  than  a  dry  and  de- 
tailed account  of  all  the  departments  and  their 
branches,  with  their  separate  relations  and 
powers. 


POPE    PIUS    K.    AND    ITALY. 


251 


CHAPTER  n. 


The  Pope  regards  such  schemes  as  we  have 
been  entertaining  as  Utopian,  and  promises  only 
to  use  the  power  with  which  he  is  invested  con- 
scientiously, not  surrender  a  fraction  of  it.  Do 
not  consider  me  as  speaking  this  to  his  dis- 
credit. How  can  he  be  otherwise  than  an  ab- 
solute monarchist  ?  His  education  has  all 
been  to  make  him  one ;  and  so  has  been  his 
experience  in  the  ever-shifting,  distracted  re- 
publics of  South  America.  As  well  might  you 
expect  an  American,  educated  a  republican, 
and  acquainted  only  with  despotism  in  its  worst 
forms,  to  be  a  despot,  as  him  to  be  a  republican. 
And  more  than  this,  with  my  knowledge  of 
Italian  society,  and  the  policy  of  European 
governments,  I  am  free  to  say,  that  an  attempt 
at  once  to  establish  a  republic  in  Rome,  would 
be  the  height  of  madn?s5.  The  people  are 
not  fit  for  it,  any  more  than  the  people  of 
Mexico  or  South  America.  ^\Tio  does  not  be- 
lieve that  a  monarchy  would  have  been  better 
for  these  chaotic  States,  than  the  endless  ci\Tl 
wars  and  military  rule  under  which  they  have 
suffered  ? 

But  suppose  the  people  intelligent  and  virtu- 
ous, would  a  republic  be  tolerated  ?  Not  for  an 
hour.  No  great  republic  will  ever  rise  in  the 
heart  of  Europe  without  rising  out  of  a  sea  of 
blool.  and  being,  cemented  by  the  blood  of  its 
haughty  sovereigns.  Look  at  France  :  the  mo- 
ment the  head  of  Louis  the  XVI.  rolled  on  the 
scaffold,  all  Europe  rose  like  one  man,  and 
moved  down  on  the  bewildered  republic  to  crush 
it.  What !  kings  be  decapitated,  and  republics 
rise  on  their  shattered  thrones  ?  No ;  self-de- 
fence compelled  them  to  direct  their  united 
strength  upon  it,  and  arrest  the  experiment  in  its 
commencement.  Even  France,  one  of  the 
most  powerful  of  the  European  States,  could  not 
stand,  though  she  had  one  of  the  greatest  lead- 
ers that  ever  entered  a  battle  field,  to  head  her 
armies :  she  fell  at  last,  overpowered  by  num- 
bers ;  and  the  allied  powers  put  a  king  of  their 


own  choosing  on  the  throne.  Poland  fell, 
though  for  a  while  victorious.  Under  the 
shadow  of  their  capital,  within  sight  of  its 
towers  and  walls,  crowded  with  their  mothers, 
wives  and  children,  her  sons  strove  with  almost 
superhuman  might,  to  maintain  their  freedom, 
and  rolled  back  the  Russian  thousands  over  the 
borders.  Yet,  under  European  diplomacy  and 
European  villany,  she  sunk  at  last;  and  her 
patriotic  sons  crowd  the  mines  of  Siberia. 

Switzerland  has  just  made  an  effort  to  be 
free  ;  and  already  the  plenipotentiaries  of  Cen- 
tral Europe   are  hastening  to  the  victorious 
army,  to  bid  it  pause  in  its  career,  or  the  tread 
of  French,  and  Prussian,  and  Austrian  legions 
will  be  heard  on  her  soil.     The  whole  policy 
of  Europe  is  to  keep  out  the  leaven  of  republi- 
canism— it  is  their  great  danger.     The  French 
Revolution  came  well  nigh  upsetting  every 
throne :  another  such  a  whirlwind  would  scat- 
ter their  crowns  so  that  they  could  not  be  gath- 
ered up  again.    In  view  of  the  case,  what 
prospect  would  there  be  of  succeeding,  should 
the  Pope  attempt  to  establish  a  republican  form 
of  government  ?   None.   But  take  another  view 
of  it.     Independent  of  the  rest  of  Europe,  what 
is  there  in  Italy  to  give  hope  of  success  ?  Great 
and  enthusiastic  hopes  are  expressed  that  the 
day  of  Italy's  regeneration  is  at  hand.     This  I 
deem  a   great  mistake,  resulting  from  igno- 
rance of  the  condition  of  the  country.  Suppose 
the  Pope  wished  it,  and  the  European  powers 
would  permit  it,  and  a  republic  should  be  estab- 
lished in  Rome,  how  would  that  affect  the  rest 
of  Italy '?     It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
Papal  States  compose  only  a  portion  of  the 
peninsula ;  and  over  the  remaining  portion  the 
Pope  has  no  more  power  than  the  President  of 
the  United  States.     Take  first  the  southern  por- 
tion, including  the  kingdom  of  Naples  and  the 
two  Sicilies.      There  have  been  recent  out- 
breaks, and  symptoms  of  a  revolution :  so  there 
alwavs  have    been,   and    we    have  seen  t!;e 


252 


POPE    PIUS    IX.     AND    ITALY. 


attempt  for  a  while  successful :  but  the  kingdom 
fell  back  again  into  its  former  state.  Should 
that  now  succeed,  the  Pope  would  not  dare  as- 
sume the  control.  He  has  no  more  right  to  it,  or 
authority  over  it,  than  he  has  over  Ireland.  And 
whatever  he  might  be  allowed  to  do  with  his 
own  kingdom,  he  would  not  be  permitted  to 
touch  it.  France,  Austria,  and  England,  would 
each  like  to  possess  that  portion  of  Italy ;  but 
those  who  maintain  the  balance  of  power  on  the 
Continent  would  immediately  interfere.  Russia 
looks  with  a  covetous  eye  on  Turkey;  but 
the  moment  she  reaches  out  her  hand,  the 
growl  of  the  English  lion  compels  her  to  with- 
draw it,  and,  strong  as  she  is,  she  dare  not 
carry  out  her  wishes.  And  let  the  Pope  under- 
take to  control  any  portion  of  Italy,  and  his 
crown  would  not  be  worth  the  picking  up. 
There  are  demonstrations  of  the  people  in  vari- 
ons  parts  of  Italy,  and  the  name  of  the  Pope  is 
the  watchword ;  but  not  because  they  expect  to 
unite  under  him — it  is  the  rallying  cry  in  their 
own  behalf.  The  duchies  of  Servia  and  Mo- 
dena  are  mere  counties,  and  not  worth  tak- 
ing into  the  account.  Tuscany,  the  most 
liberal  of  the  Italian  States,  maintains,  as  much 
as  she  can,  a  neutrality ;  for  the  Austrian  col- 
umns are  too  near  her  borders.  The  north- 
western portion,  including  Milan  and  Venice, 
are  directly  under  Austrian  rule ;  and  that  rule 
will  be  maintained  at  whatever  cost.  She 
would  allow  the  Pope  to  invade  her  capital  as 
soon  as  exercise  the  least  power  over  that  part 
of  her  dominions.  There  is  only  one  kingdom 
left,  that  of  Sardinia,  including  Piedmont  and 
Genoa.  This  is  the  most  powerful  State  of 
Italy.  The  king  has  a  standing  army  of  eighty 
thousand  men  ;  and  he,  doubtless,  on  the  short- 
est notice,  could  bring  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  troops  into  the  field;  a  powerful  force 
if  thrown  on  the  side  of  the  Pope.  Great  hopes 
are  entertained  of  him ;  for  he  has  declared  his 
sympathy  with  the  Pontiff,  and  offered  his  aid. 
He  has  also  introduced  some  reforms  into  his 
own  kingdom  ;  and  when  Sardinia  shall  reach 
her  hand  across  the  peninsula,  and  clasp  that 
of  the  PontiflT,  in  sacred  union,  the  resistance 
offered  to  Austria  will  be  formidable. 

But  who  is  this  Carlo  Alberto— King  Charles 
Albert — who  has  threatened  to  meet  Austria  in 
the  field,  if  she  attempts  to  occupy  Ferrara, 
and  has  offered  his  services  to  Pope  Pius  IX.  ? 
The  veriest  despot,  traitor,  and  hypocrite  that 
ever  escapdH  the  punishment  due  his  crimes. 
Ho  himself  was  once  at  the  head  of  one  of 


the  most  formidable  conspiracies  ever  set  on 
foot  for  the  redemption  of  Italy.  Chief  of 
the  Carbonari,  he  promised  constitutional 
freedom  to  Italy.  That  conspiracy  counted 
some  of  the  noblest  spirits  of  the  age.  But 
just  on  the  eve  of  its  development,  death  re- 
moved the  obstructions  between  Charles  Albert 
and  the  throne  of  Piedmont ;  and  vaulting  into 
it,  he  immediately  seized  the  conspirators  he 
himself  had  seduced  into  his  ambitious  plans, 
and,  by  imprisonment,  banishment,  and  death, 
rid  himself  of  his  old  friends,  and  became  the 
most  hated  tyrant  in  Europe.  Added  to  all 
this,  he  is  a  Jesuit  of  the  Jesuits,  and  as  weak 
as  he  is  villanous.  When  I  was  in  Genoa  he 
visited  the  city  ;  but,  as  he  passed  through  the 
streets,  none  but  the  lower  classes  appeared  to 
do  him  honor ;  and,  as  he  walked  from  his  pal- 
ace past  the  university,  the  students  in  the 
porch  never  took  off  their  hats,  but  turned  their 
backs  upon  him.  He  has  proved  himself  one 
of  the  darkest  traitors,  both  to  friendship  and 
liberty,  that  ever  disgraced  humanity  ;  and  who 
would  trust  him  again  ?  He  upholds  the  Pope, 
offers  his  aid,  and  talks  loudly  of  the  independ- 
ence and  nationality  of  Italy.  Ah  !  "  Timeo 
Danaos  et  dona  ferentes.^'  I  fear  such  a  man 
when  he  brings,  and  iliough  he  brings  gifts  in 
his  hands.  But,  it  may  be  asked,  what  motive 
has  he  for  the  course  he  adopts  ?  Three  very 
powerful  ones.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  hated 
intensely  by  his  own  subjects  ;  and  he  knows 
it,  and  fears  their  anger.  This  dislike  he  can 
remove  in  no  way  so  effectually  as  by  uphold- 
ing the  Pope  ;  and  already  has  he  found  his 
reward ;  for,  on  his  last  visit  to  Genoa,  the  in- 
habitants flocked  by  thousands  along  the  road, 
to  cheer  him.  In  the  second  place,  Austria  is 
the  only  power  he  has  to  fear ;  she  trenches 
on  his  borders,  and  holds  him  in  perpetual 
alarm ;  and  he  will  willingly  seize  any  event 
that  would  injure  his  enemy,  and  compel  him 
to  evacuate  Italy.  In  the  third  place,  in  case 
of  any  successful  hostilities,  he  could  not 
but  enlarge  his  territory.  If,  through  his  in- 
strumentality, Austria  should  be  spoiled  of  her 
possessions  in  Italy,  he  knows  he  could  dic- 
tate his  own  terms  to  the  Pope  ;  and  rest  as- 
sured he  would  be  content  with  nothing  less 
than  half  of  the  peninsula.  He  is  the  most 
powerful  sovereign  in  it,  and  he  looks  with  a 
covetous  eye  on  those  fair  portions  which  tlie 
Austrians  hold. 

But  as  for  wishing  the  liberty  of  Italy,  or 
caring  anything  about  its  independence  and 


POPE    PIUS    IX.     AND    ITALY. 


253 


nationality,  except  so  far  as  that  nationality 
consists  in  being  under  one  despotic  sovereign, 
and  he  tiiat  sovereign,  he  is  innocent.  Will  a 
man  that  has  been  guilty  of  the  darkest  crimes 
that  stain  our  nature,  in  order  to  get  a  throne, 
advance  measures  to  overturn  it  ?  No,  no ! 
He  is  a  hypocrite  and  traitor  still,  and  the  peo- 
ple of  Italy  will  yet  find  it  so,  to  their  cost 
But  there  is  one  other  course  left — the  univer- 
sal rising  of  the  people,  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  and  the  establishment  of 
a  popular  government.  But  can  the  people 
withstand  their  own  sovereigns,  backed  by  the 
powers  of  Europe  ?  Every  attempt  has  thus 
far  been  a  failure.  Even  if  they  could,  the 
jealousies  prevailing  between  the  different  prov- 
inces and  kingdoms  are  too  strong  to  permit 
such  a  union.  There  are  no  elements  of  union 
in  Italy — the  whole  theory  is  preposterous. 
But  is  there  no  hope  for  the  regeneration  of 
Italy,  in  the  present  movement  ?  None,  that  I 
can  see.  I  discern  in  the  conduct  of  the  Pope 
only  a  desire  to  rule  his  people  well,  and  not  tol- 
erate any  innovation  on  his  power — indeed,  no 
wish  to  abridge  it.  It  is  sad  to  say  so  ;  it  is 
sad  to  see  the  Italian  people,  who  have  suffered 
so  long  and  heavily,  expressing  the  warmest 
gratitude  and  love  towards  their  rulers,  when 
they  exhibit  the  least  care  for  them,  and  yet 
say  that  that  gratitude  is  thrown  away,  that  joy 
premature,  and  those  hopes  groundless.  How 
despots  can  withstand  such  confidence  and  of- 
fered love,  seems  strange  to  us,  but  so  it  is. 
They  know  from  the  past,  that  power,  once 
passed  over  into  the  hands  of  the  people,  can 
never  be  recalled.  I  have  said  of  Italy  what  I 
believe  to  be  true.  If  any  one  supposes  that 
my  incredulity  has  grown  out  of  a  want  of  sym- 
pathy, he  is  much  mistaken.  My  heart  bleeds 
for  that  country,  and  no  one  would  delight  to 
find  me  wrong  more  than  myself.  But  could 
I  convey  to  others  those  views  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  obtain  without  a  residence  in  Europe, 
with  this  very  question  constantly  before  their 
minds,  and  made  a  serious  study,  they  would 
find  the  reasons  I  have  given  have  not  begun 
to  express  the  difficulties  that  lie  in  the  way  of 
the  extravagant  hopes  that  are  entertained  by 
so  many.  There  are  noble  spirits  in  Italy,  that 
would  cheerfully  die  for  their  country.  Many 
a  proud  noble  in  Genoa  would  send  up  the 
shout  of  freedom,  even  though  it  brought  the 
walls  of  his  palace  about  his  ears,  could  he 
rouse  successful  resistance  by  it. 

Still  it  may  be  asked,  if  I  suppose  oppression 


is  always  to  exist.  No ;  it  will  yet  come  to  an 
end  in  Italy,  but  only  as  it  comes  to  an  end  in 
Europe.  Then  it  will  be  the  result,  rather  than 
a  cause — the  product  of  convulsions  and  revolu- 
tions in  more  powerful  States.  If  there  be  one 
thing  fixed  in  destiny,  it  is  the  steady,  resistless 
progress  of  the  republican  principle.  Struggle 
as  despots  may — surround  themselves  as  they 
will  with  all  the  checks  and  restraints  on  pop- 
ular feeling — bind  and  torture,  and  exile  and 
slay,  the  terrible  day  of  reckoning  is  slowly 
advancing.  Before  this  single  principle  Europe 
is  incessantly  pushed  forward  to  the  brink  of  a 
frightful  gulf.  On  that  brink  despotism  will 
make  its  last  stand  and  final  struggle.  The 
statesmen  of  Europe  see  it  and  know  it,  and 
hope  only  to  defer  the  day  of  evil.  Come  they 
know  it  will :  as  Guizot  lately  said  in  the  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies,  All  Germany  is  on  fire.  I 
might,  if  I  had  time,  prove  tliis,  to  the  full  con- 
viction of  every  mind  ;  but  I  will  only  point  to 
Europe  now  and  Europe  sixty  years  ago,  as  fear- 
ful corroboration  of  what  I  say.  Europe  is  yet  to 
be  set  afloat  on  the  turbulent  sea  of  democracy. 
The  French  Revolution  is  but  one  act  in  the 
great  tragedy  yet  to  be  enacted.  That,  with 
Bonaparte  at  its  head,  whelmed  the  continent 
in  blood,  and  made  the  knees  of  every  monarch 
smite  together,  like  Belshazzar's  of  old.  The 
next  shall  open  under  their  very  thrones,  as 
the  French  Revolution  did  under  the  throne  of 
the  Bourbons.  The  people  are  yet  to  have  the 
power,  and  woe  then  to  those  who  have  mad- 
dened them.  It  needs  not  the  ear  of  prophecy, 
it  requires  only  the  ear  of  reason,  to  hear  the 
sound  of  falling  thrones  in  tlie  future.  Fugi- 
tive kings  are  to  flit  through  the  realms  they 
have  ruined.  Now,  barrier  after  barrier  is 
erected,  check  after  check  applied,  promise 
after  promise  made  and  broken,  to  arrest  tlie 
waves  of  popular  feeling ;  yet  they  keep  swell- 
in »  higher  and  higher.  Soon  the  last  barrier 
shall  be  raised,  the  last  check  exhausted,  and 
then  the  increasing  flood  will  burst  over.  What 
is  to  come  of  it,  I  cannot  tell.  Through 
the  blackness  of  that  approaching  storm  no 
eye  but  God's  can  pierce.  Whether  anarchy 
or  constitutional  liberty  is  to  spring  out  of 
it,  He  only  knows ;  but  the  experiment  of  self- 
government  the  people  of  Europe  are  yet  to 
try.  No  power  can  prevent  it.  Around  the 
ruins  of  Italy,  and  the  feudal  castles  of  England 
and  Germany,  amid  the  fore.sts  of  Russia,  the 
struggle  of  the  people  with  their  rulers  is  to 
take  place.    Every  man  who  wi]l  sit  down  to 


254 


WAR. 


the  study  of  modern  liistory,  with  this  single 
fact  before  him,  will  turn  pale  at  the  conclu- 
sion he  cannot  escape.  We  may  not  live 
to  see  that  struggle,  but  it  is  the  ghost  that 
haunts  at  this  moment  the  slumbers  of  every 
continental  monarch.  The  scaffold  of  Charles 
I.,  and  the  guillotine  of  Ijouis  XVI.,  are  ever 
present  to  their  imaginations,  and  make  cow- 
ards of  them  all. 

In  this  great  movement,  Italy  will  doubtless 
participate,  and  the  conduct  of  the  present 
Pope  is  only  another  impulse  to  it.  He  is 
doing  more  than  he  dreams  of — taking  Gteps 
that  can  never  be  retraced ;  and  do  now  what 
he  will,  he  cannot,  as  he  says,  transmit  the 
pontifical  sovereignty  full  and  complete  as  he 
received  it.  His  successor  must  go  onward  or 
downward. 

There  is  one  thought,  however,  worthy  of 


consideration.  Italy,  old  as  she  is,  has  wild 
land.  One-third  of  her  surface,  through  the 
slight  encouragement  given  to  industry,  is  un- 
cultivated and  waste.  All  along  the  coast  of 
the  Mediterranean,  in  Asia  Minor  and  Egypt, 
where  once  a  mighty  population  was  supported, 
land  now  lies  neglected  and  idle.  Could  a 
free  government  be  established  there,  with  all 
the  privileges  enjoyed  in  this  country,  the  tide 
of  emigration  would  set  eastward  instead  of 
westward.  There  is  the  centre  of  commerce 
and  trade,  and  it  requires  only  permission  to  line 
the  Mediterranean  with  wharves,  and  cover  its 
sunny  shore  with  thrifty  farms,  and  the  stirring 
sound  of  commerce.  It  needs  no  well-devised 
plans,  and  great  outlays  of  nations — it  needs 
only  liberty,  to  fill  the  Mediterranean  with  em- 
igrants who  will  reclaim  the  desert  and  rebuild 
the  cities  of  that  once  glorious  land. 


WAm 


BY    O.     S.     ST.    JOHN. 


Among  the  saddest  of  all  evils  sad. 

That  Heaven's  judgment  ever  sent  on  earth. 

Or  hating  man  inflicts  on  hated  man. 

Is  W^ar— relentless,  ruthless,  bloody  War! 

No  grave  historian  yet  has  truly  penned. 

Nor  grieving  poet  sung  its  direful  ills. 

O  War !  thou  art  a  cruel,  monstrous  fiend  ! 

Wholesale  murderer !    Thy  name  is  Legion  ! 

For  numerous  is  thy  train  of  miseries. 

Thou  art  a  gaudy  cheat !  a  glaring  lie ! 

Thy  golden-decorated  cup  is  filled 

With  nauseous,  poisoned,  deadly  draughts. 

Thou  art  a  sepulchre — all  white  without. 

Within  are  dead  men's  bones  and  loathsome  worms. 

Thy  streaming  banners  and  thy  martial  airs. 

Thy  gilded  trappings  and  thy  glittering  swords. 

Thine  epauletled  hero's  prancing  steeds. 

Thy  lofty  boasts  and  deeds  of  high  renown, 

Are  bul  thine  outward  show— splendid,  but  false. 

It  is  in  War's  unwritten  history, 

In  those  deep,  darkest  lines  no  pen  can  trace, 

Its  true  and  woful  character  is  drawn. 

Tib  writ  in  sighs,  and  tears,  and  blood.  'Tis  stamped 

On  fields  made  desolate— on  hamlets  burned— 

On  towns  destroyed — on  pop'lous  cities  sacked ! 

'Tis  heard  amid  the  cannon's  roar— the  tramp 

Of  furious,  frighted  horse— the  clash  of  arms— 

The  maddened  charge  of  hostile  ranks,  glowing 

With  fell  revenge,  and  burning  hot  with  wrath. 

And  when  the  battle's  o'er  and  victory  won, 

Tis  pitiful  to  hear  the  groans  and  cries 

That  rend  the  midnight  air  ;  to  view  the  ground 

All  wel  with  human  ((ore,  and  strewn  with  dead  ; 


To  see  the  wounded  gasping  out  their  lives. 

In  writhing  throes,  and  calling  out  for  aid. 

Unheeded  and  unpitied.    Oh  !  'tis  sad 

To  see  the  wretched  band  of  mothers,  wives. 

And  sisters,  seeking  midst  the  heaps  of  cold 

And  mangled  corpses,  brothers,  husbands,  sons— 

Or  grasping  in  their  wild  embrace,  with  loud 

And  frantic  shrieks,  the  lifeless  forms  of  those 

That  once  they  loved.    'Tis  pitiful 

To  see  the  little  weeping  orphan  girls, 

And  little  weeping  orphan  boys,  and  herds 

Of  weeping,  human  wretches,  War  drives  out. 

To  wander,  wretched  and  forlorn,  and  die, 

Amid  the  rugged  paths  of  life's  dark  vale! 

War  snaps  the  ties  that  bind  us  to  our  race — 

Subverts  all  social  life — domestic  bliss — 

And  renders  man  a  monster !    All  tell  us 

War  is  sad — the  victor  and  the  vanquished. 

The  gallant  soldier,  from  the  field  of  strife 

Returning,  where  he  bravely  fought  and  bled. 

And  triumphed  o'er  his  country's  foes,  exclaims. 

With  all  his  laurels  on  his  brow,  and  praise 

Th'  adniirin;;  crowd  bestows,  and  pageant  show : 

"  Wy  soul  is  sick  of  War—ils  carnage,  crime. 

Distress,  and  stern,  severe  necessities !" 

The  soldier,  dying  in  a  stranger  land, 

Of  wounds  received  in  fight,  or  fever  caught 

Atnid  the  arid  wastes  and  putrid  heats 

Of  southern  clime — away  from  home,  unsoothed 

By  yearning  mother's  anxious,  lender  care. 

Or  gentle  sister's  kindly  love — parched 

With  thirst  and  racked  with  pain,  and  sick  nt  heart, 

Exclaims,  with  panting  breath—"  Oh,  War  is  sad !" 


THE  SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 


255 


ITIEIIS    SlP]ll(S1PIS!g-IEr^lErH^IgI0). 


I  WAS  detained  several  hoars,  a  few  days 
since,  at  the  house  of  a  patient,  and  to  pass 
away  the  time,  I  took  up  an  old  number  of 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  containing  a  tale  called 
the  *'  Milkman  of  Walworth."  Whether  the 
singular  incidents  there  detailed  ever  had  any 
foundation  in  fact,  I  know  not.  They  brought, 
however,  to  my  recollection  certain  incidents  of 
a  very  similar  character  which  transpired  under 
my  own  observation  many  years  since,  and 
which,  I  doubt  not,  will  be  recognized  by  many 
of  my  readers  as  very  familiar  to  them.  Were 
it  not  that  others,  many  others,  were  witnesses 
of  the  same  facts,  they  might  well  be  con- 
sidered, when  read,  entirely  imaginary ;  and  the 
similarity  between  the  incidents  in  the  case  and 
those  related  in  the  Milkman  of  Walworth,  is 
so  great,  that,  had  the  latter  been  originally 
published  in  this  country,  I  should  have  sup-' 
posed  at  once  that  they  had  their  prototype  in 
the  individual  who  is  the  subject  of  the  follow- 
ing sketch.  Yet  I  can  hardly  suppose  that  to 
be  so,  and  as  many  of  my  readers  have  probably 
read  that  tale,  I  shall  notice  but  briefly  those 
facts  in  which  the  resemblance  is  striking,  and 
detail  more  at  large  those  portions  of  the  case 
which  are  different  and  occurred  at  a  more  re- 
cent period  than  the  others. 

Everybody  who  lived  in ,  twelve  years 

ago,  will  remember  a  singular  individual  who 
lived  there  also  at  that  time.  He  was  a  tall 
spare  man,  of  perhaps  five-and-forty  years,  with 
a  bent  form,  though  evidently  not  from  age  nor 
weakness — heavy,  scowling,  bushy  eyebrows, 
lowering  down  over  and  half  covering  his 
small,  black,  and  very  sharp  eyes  — a  lip  that 
never  altered  its  appearance  of  being  curled  in 
perpetual  and  unchanging  derision  and  scorn 
at  a  large  hooked  nose  and  upturned  chin,  that 
seemed  to  be  always  threatening  war  with  each 
other  whenever  his  mouth  opened  and  shut — and 
long,  straight,  and  very  black  hair,  that  hung 


loose  about  his  temples,  and  behind  from  be- 
neath an  old  hat  with  a  very  broad  brim.  He 
was  never  seen  in  the  street,  but  he  held  by  the 
hand  a  boy,  perhaps  ten  years  old,  and  in  every 
respect  a  very  miniature  of  himself.  His  walk, 
which  seemed  to  have  become  a  daily  and  ha- 
bitual one,  was  always  the  same.     Emerging 

from  his  house  at  the  top  of street,  with 

the  lad  grasped  firmly  by  the  hand,  he  pursued 
his  way  down  the  broad  and  straight  avenue, 
at  a  steady  and  rapid  pace — his  tall  form  bent 
forward — his  eye  fixed  on  the  pavement,  and 
never  raised  to  notice  any  individual  he  met — 
and  dragging  the  child,  who  was  obliged  to 
maintain  a  brisk  trot  to  keep  about  a  step  in  his 
rear.  Having  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue, 
he  turned  the  comer,  and  a  few  steps  more 

brought  him  into street,  at  that  time  the 

principal  business  street, and  generally  thronged 
from  morning  till  night  with  a  passing  and  re- 
passing multitude.  Entering  this  busy  thorough- 
fare, with  fixed  eye  and  undiminished  speed  he 
tlireaded  his  way  through  tlie  dense  crowd,  oc- 
casionally jostled  rudely  by  some  passer-by,  but 
always  reaching  back  to  retain  his  hold  of  the 
boy.  At  the  end  of  this  street  he  passed  into 
a  narrow  alley,  leading  down  to  the  canal,  and 
continuing  on  to  the  last  building  in  that  low 
and  muddy  part  of  the  town,  he  paused,  and 
gazing  out  for  a  few  moments  on  the  open 
country  beyond,  he  suddenly  turned  and  re- 
tract his  steps,  by  the  same  way  he  had  come, 
to  his  house.  It  made  no  difference  what  sort 
of  weather  it  was ;  in  cold  and  heat — in  fair 
weather,  or  stormy  with  rain  or  snow — in  the 
bitter,  piercing  winds  of  winter — there  he  was 
to  be  seen  daily,  and  always  dragging  along 
the  unresisting  boy.  No  one  knew  who  he  was, 
nor  what  the  boy  was  to  him.  He  might  have 
been  the  Wandering  Jew,  and  the  lad  the  latest 
of  his  descendants.  Nobody  knew,  and,  after  a 
few  months  from  his  taking  np  his  residence 


256 


THE  SPECTRE-HAUNTEP 


there,  nobody  seemed  to  care.  Strangers  would 
often  })ause  to  notice  his  singular  appearance, 
and  cast  a  look  of  pity  on  the  sad  face  of 
the  child,  but  those  who  were  accustomed  to 
tha  sight  ceased  to  bestow  any  regard  upon 
chem. 

His  daily  route  lay  by  my  office  door,  and  I 
often  had  opportunities  of  seeing  him.  It  would 
be  untrue  to  say  that  I  felt  no  interest  in  the 
strange  individual,  nor  in  the  poor,  sickly-look- 
ing boy,  who  was  always  his  companion.  I 
made  no  little  effort  to  learn  something  of  his 
history ;  and  once  my  curiosity  led  me  to  follow 
him  to  the  end  of  his  walk,  when,  as  he  paused, 
I  accosted  him  politely  with  some  common  re- 
mark introduced  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a  fur- 
ther conversation  and  acquaintance.  But  he 
turned  upon  me  one  fierce  glance  of  his  sharp 
eye,  and  without  replying,  turned  and  resumed 
his  rapid  walk  homeward.  This  reception  ef- 
fectually quenched  my  impertinence,  though  it 
did  not  diminish  my  curiosity.  This  on  the 
contrary  was  greatly  increased  by  an  incident 
that  occurred  a  few  weeks  afterward. 

I  was  standing  in  my  office  door  one  day 
looking  at  him  as  he  came  down  the  street 
with  his  rapid  and  powerful  stride  towards  me, 
when  my  attention  was  called  away  from  him 
for  an  instant  by  a  well-dressed  woman,  who 
had  stopped  and  was  standing  upon  the  side-walk 
directly  in  front  of  me,  exclaiming  eagerly,  "It 
is  he,"  Her  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  strange 
man  approaching,  and  in  whose  path  she  stood. 
But  she  did  not  move — she  did  not  seem  even  to 
breathe  for  a  moment,  as  he  approached  with 
downcast  eye  as  if  he  would  walk  directly  over 
her.  He  did  not  look  up  as  he  turned  to  pass 
her,  but  she  exclaimed,  "  Hiram  Fuller  I" 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  it 
would  have  disturbed  him  less  than  this  simple 
exclamation.  He  dropped  the  hand  of  the  boy 
— stopped  instantly — clasped  his  hands  convul- 
sively together — but  did  not  utter  a  word  or 
alter  the  fixed  gaze  of  his  eye  upon  the  pave- 
ment. He  looked  as  if,  when  he  had  clasped 
his  hands,  he  had  been  instantly  converted  into 
stone.  The  scene  lasted  but  a  moment.  The 
novelty  of  the  incident  began  to  attract  a  crowd 
of  lookers-on,  and  reaching  back,  he  resumed 
his  hold  of  the  unresisting  boy,  and  turning 
about,  without  continuing  his  walk,  he  returned 
to  his  house,  followed  at  a  short  distance  by  the 
female.  She,  however,  did  not  enter  with  him, 
but  stopping  at  the  door  a  few  seconds,  as  if  to 
notice  the  place,  she  walked  on  and  was  soon 


lost  from  sight.  No  word  had  passed  between 
these  singular  individuals. 

From  this  time  she  became  the  daily  attend- 
ant upon  his  walk.  He  did  not  see  her,  for  he 
never  raised  his  eye  nor  turned  to  look,  but  he 
knew  she  was  there,  and,  as  if  under  her  influ- 
ence, he  had  moderated  his  pace,  so  that  she 
was  able  without  effort  to  keep  at  the  same 
distance  from  him  and  to  follow  him  easily. 
Her  presence,  although  it  renewed  the  univer- 
sal curiosity,  and  furnished  a  clue  by  which 
many  were  able  to  fabricate  suspicions  of  their 
own  as  to  the  relation  subsisting  between  the  two 
individuals,  only  increased  the  mystery.  What 
was  it?  Who  was  he  ?  Why  was  this  woman 
everlastingly  following  him  like  his  shadow  ? 

Who  was  she  ?     The  good  gossips  of had 

an  unfailing  source  for  speculation.  But  the 
mystery  remained  as  dark  as  night.  There 
she  was,  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  and  every  day, 
only  a  few  steps  behind  him,  and  leaving  him 
only  when  he  entered  his  house.  The  manner 
in  which  he  received  her  when  they  first  met 
rendered  it  almost  certain  that  the  same  thing 
had  happened  before.  Else  why  did  he  main- 
tain under  such  circumstances  that  same  sul- 
len, dogged,  downcast  eye,  as  if  he  had  been 
all  along  expecting  her,  and  had  made  up  his 
mind  not  to  look  at  her  when  she  should  come  ? 
A  first  surprise  of  this  kind  would  have  dis- 
turbed him  more — would  have  caused  him  to 
look  up  at  her,  at  the  look  of  unutterable 
scorn  which  she  poured  upon  him  as  he  stood 
like  a  statue  before  her.  Of  the  boy  she  took 
no  notice.  Was  there,  then,  nothing  in  the 
meeting  of  the  two  elder  ones,  in  which  he  was 
interested  ?  Was  he  nothing  to  her  ?  Was 
he  in  no  way  connected  with  the  impenetrable 
mystery  that  hung  over  the  others?  There 
are  mysteries  that  sleep  forever — whose  secrets 
never  come  to  light.  Such  might  be  the  case 
in  this.  The  individuals  held  no  intercourse 
with  each  other,  except  that  unwelcome  one  of 
constant  presence  whenever  the  man  appeared 
out  of  doors.  They  never  spoke  to  any  one 
else.  She  lodged,  it  was  discovered,  about  a 
mile  distant,  in  the  house  of  a  solitary  and  very 
deaf  old  widow  woman,  whom  she  paid  her 
weekly  stipend  for  the  small  accommodations 
she  received,  but  who  knew  nothing  of  her 
more  than  any  one  else.  There  seemed  no 
way  of  getting  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter,  and 
all  conjecture  ended  where  it  began. 

Foui  years  ago,  after  my  return  from  the 
South,  where,  I  have  said  before,  I  passed  a 


THE  SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 


«87 


number  of  years,  I  again  met  the  same  individ- 
ual, in  another  place,  and  this  time  without  the 
female  or  the  boy.  Were  they  botli  dead? 
was  the  first  question  that  came  in  ray  mind ;  or 
the  boy  only,  and  was  the  female  still  in  pur- 
suit of  him  to  discover  the  place  to  which  he 
liad  fled  from  her  continual  presence  ?  That 
the  latter  was  not  the  case,  seemed  probable 
from  his  altered  appearance.  His  eye  was  no 
longer  fixed  upon  the  ground,  but  wandered 
with  a  restless  and  fitful  glance  from  one  ob- 
ject to  another,  as  if  he  were  now  in  search  of 
her  and  anxious  to  discover  her.  His  face  had 
the  same  expression,  otherwise,  as  it  formerly 
had,  and  he  w~d^3  dressed  in  the  same  manner  ; 
but  his  gait  was  slow  and  deliberate,  and  he 
often  paused  to  gaze  for  a  few  moments  eagerly 
upon  the  crowd  that  was  passing  by  him.  It 
seemed  to  me  at  the  time  a  singular  coinci- 
dence, that  I  should  meet  him  again  at  such  a 
distance  from  the  place  in  which  I  had  origi- 
nally seen  him.  And  yet  why  not  meet  him 
as  well  as  any  other  ?  Why  not  rather  ?  for  he 
was  a  wanderer,  fixed  to  no  place,  and  per- 
haps had  been  in  a  thousand  other  places  since- 
I  had  seen  him.  But  we  had  met  again,  and 
although  all  memory  of  him  had  before  passed 
from  my  mind,  I  now  felt  revived  within  me, 
with  greater  force,  the  curiosity  to  find  out 
sometliing  of  his  singular  history,  and  his  con- 
nection w  ith  the  female  and  the  boy.     I  wrote 

to  a  friejid  in to  ascertain  what  became 

of  them  after  I  had  left,  and  by  return  of  mail, 
I  received  a  letter  informing  me  jLhat  they  had 
continued  their  walks  as  formerly  for  about  a 
month,  when  all  three  were  suddenly  missing. 
Notliing  more  had  been  heard  of  them  till  about 
a  year  before,  when  the  man  had  again  made 
his  appearance  alone,  and  walking  the  streets 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  till  very  late  in  the 
evening,  often  looking  around  him  as  if  expect- 
inof  to  see  some  person.  Some  sagacious  indi- 
viduals conjectured  that  he  was  in  search  of 
the  woman  now,  as  she  had  formerly  seemed  to 
be  in  search  of  him.  After  a  few  days  he 
again  disappeared,  and  that  was  the  last  of  him. 
This  was  all  I  could  hear. 

I  was  however  more  fortunate  than  I  antici- 
pated, and  in  a  few  days  learned  from  his  own 
mouth  the  history  of  his  life.  The  notes  I 
made  at  the  time  furnish  me  the  means  of 
giving  it  as  he  related  it.  I  shall  commence, 
however,  w'ith  my  first  introduction  to  him,  and 
transcribe  the  narrative  from  my  diary,  omitting 
so  much  as  contains  the  matter  detailed  above. 


December  31. — I  have  been  occupied  for 
some  days  in  arranging  the  business  of  the  year 
past,  and  last  evening  had  sat  up  to  a  very  late 
hour  for  that  purpose,  when,  just  as  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  I  was  aroused  by  a  violent  ring- 
ing of  the  crffice-bell.  Upon  opening  the  door, 
I  was  surprised  to  meet  face  to  face  a  man  of 
most  strange  and  mysterious  cliaracter,  whom 
I  saw  years  ago  under  singular  circumstances, 
the  memory  of  whicn  has  been  revived  by  re- 
cently seeing  him  again  in  this  place. 

(Here  follows  the  substance  of  what  1  have 
already  related.) 

As  he  entered  the  door  last  night,  I  was 
more  than  ever  surprised  at  his  appearance. 
He  removed  his  hat  as  I  offered  him  a  chair  by 
the  fire,  and  although  the  weather  was  intensely 
cold,  I  noticed  large  drops  of  perspiration 
standing  on  his  forehead,  which  he  wiped  off, 
as  he  sat  down,  and  for  a  moment  gazed  upon 
the  fire  in  the  grate.  His  fane  was  extremely 
haggard,  and  his  eye  wild  and  restless,  and  his 
hair,  long  and  matted,  hung  like  snakes  about 
his  shoulders.  I  now  noticed  tliat  whenever 
he  turned  his  eye  upon  any  object,  it  almost  in- 
stantly forsook  it  for  another — not,  as  I  thought 
before,  as  if  he  were  seeking  for  something, 
but  rather  as  if  everywhere  it  turned  it  met 
something  upon  which  it  could  not  bear  to 
look ;  and  sometimes  a  elmdder  shook  his  whole 
body. 

I  presume  he  had  come  in,  attracted  probably 
by  the  light  he  had  seen  through  the  window, 
only  to  seek  a  temporary  shelter  from  the  cold 
and  to  warm  himself,  for  he  sat  a  long  time 
without  saying  a  word.  Determined,  however^ 
not  to  lose  the  opportunity,  I  took  my  seat  by 
the  side  of  the  grate  where  I  coa'd  have  a  fair 
view  of  his  face,  and  attempted  to  draw  him 
into  conversation. 

"  Your  name,  I  believe,  is  Hiram  Fuller  ?" 

He  started,  and  again  1  met  one  of  those 
fierce  glances  which  I  saw  years  before  when 
I  made  a  similar  attempt  to  gain  his  confidence- 
Nothing  daunted,  however,  I  waited  patiently 
for  his  answer,  which  I  felt  must  come.  And 
it  did. 

"  You  know  me  then ;"  and  the  voice  sounded 
as  if  it  came  from  the  grave,  hoarse  and  hollow. 

"  I  have  seen  you  before.  Do  you  not  re- 
member me  ?" 

He  looked  in  my  face  an  instant,  but  not  as 
before,  and  replied : 

"  I  do.     You  spoke  to  me  once  in .eight 

years  ago.     It  is  strange  that  I  recollect  it,  for 


258 


THE  SPEOI RE-HAUNTED. 


I  have  had  but  one  thought  in  my  brain  for 
more  than  ten  years.  And  you  saw  her !  Have 
you  seen  her  since  ?" 

I  told  him  that  I  had  ivot,  and  he  continued : 

"  I  have.  I  see  her  now — there  she  stands, 
just  inside  of  the  door.  She  will  stand  there 
till  I  go,  and  then  she  will  follow  me,  as  you  saw 
hervears  ago,  only  now  she  never  leaves  me." 

He  did  not  look  around  as  he  spoke,  but  I 
looked  involuntarily  in  the  direction  he  indi- 
cated, although  I  knev,'  there  could  be  no  one 
there.  The  man  is  mad  then,  I  thought,  and 
began  again  to  speculate  upon  the  probable 
cause,  in  connection  with  what  I  knew  of  him 
formerly.  Could  it  be  crime,  and  if  so,  what 
was  the  nature  of  it  ?  Was  it  some  foul  wrong 
done  to  the  miserable  woman  who  had  pursued 
him  so  relentlessly  for  a  time,  till  his  con- 
science had  goaded  him  on  to  madness,  and 
fixed  her  image  forever  in  his  mind  to  follow 
him  down  to  the  grave  ?  And  had  she  left 
him  then — or  where  was  she  now  ?  Was  she 
dead,  and  had  this  added  another  sting  to  his 
remorse  ?  It  would  seem,  on  the  contrary,  that 
that  would  ha^e  been  an  event  calculated  to  re- 
lieve him  of  his  load,  by  removing  her  from  his 
sight.  And  what  of  the  boy?  A  thousand 
conjectures  passed  through  my  mind,  but  all 
were  unsatisfactory.  I  was  about  addressing 
some  further  questions  to  him,  when,  casting  a 
glance  around  the  office,  he  said,  in  a  milder 
tone  than  he  had  used  before  : 

"  You  are  a  physician,  sir.  Can  you  cure 
diseases  of  the  mind  ?" 

"  They  are  not  always  incurable,"  I  replied. 
"  But  much  depends  upon  the  nature  and  origin 
of  them.     Have  you  such  a  disease  ? 

"  Do  you  see  any  one  standing  between  me 
and  the  door  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  do  not." 

"  But  I  do ;  or  if  I  do  not  see  her,  I  know  she 
is  there.  She  always  stands,  day  and  night,  at 
just  such  a  distance  from  me,  but  not  always  in 
the  same  place.  When  I  sit  down  she  takes 
her  stand  there,  but  when  I  am  walking  in  the 
street,  look  where  I  will  I  see  her,  with  her  eye 
fixed  upon  me.  It  does  no  good  to  shut  my 
eyes^  for  I  always  know  she  is  there,  and  al- 
ways will  be  there.  I  cannot  escape  her.  In 
the  few  hours  I  can  sleep,  I  am  free  from  the 
illusion,  for  such  I  know  it  to  be,  but  the  mo- 
ment I  wake  I  see  her  again.  But  I  must  go. 
I  have  not  spoken  as  many  words  at  a  time  in 
years  as  I  have  spoken  to  you  now,  and  I  know 
not  why  I  have  done  it  now." 


He  rose  to  depart,  but  out  of  pity  for  his  mel- 
ancholy condition,  and  fear  lest  I  might  not 
have  another  chance  to  talk  with  him,  I  offered 
him  a  lodging  for  the  night,  which,  to  my  sur- 
prise, he  accepted  without  much  hesitation. 

Day  was  just  breaking,  when  I  rose  this 
morning.  Upon  entering  the  office,  I  found 
my  strange  guest  there  before  me.  He  liad  re- 
plenished the  fire  in  the  grate,  and  was  seated 
before  it,  just  as  he  sat  last  night.  I  again 
entered  into  conversation  with  him  about  his 
delusion.  I  found  that  he  was  a  man  of  strong 
powers  of  mind  except  in  this  one  point,  but 
here  he  was  entirely  at  fault. 

"  Have  you  never,"  I  inquired,  "  looked  this 
phantom  steadily  in  the  eye  and  tried  to  face  it 
down,  and  reason  yourself  out  of  the  belief  that 
it  is  there  ?" 

"  The  latter  often,"  he  replied ;  "  but  look  her 
in  the  face  !  No,  never.  It  would  kill  me,  if  I 
were  to  do  it  but  an  instant.     I  have  not  done 

it  but  once  since  vou  saw  us  in ;  and  then, 

O  God  !" 

And  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
'  shuddered  violently.  When  he  recovered,  he 
was  still  agitated  and  his  eye  was  restless 
and  wandering,  and  soon  in  spite  of  all  my  per- 
suasions he  left  me,  to  renew  his  perpetual 
tramp  out  of  doors.  Here  again  I  am  disap- 
pointed in  my  hopes  of  learning  more  of  him. 
But  hoping  that  I  may  yet  again  meet  with 
him,  and  be  able  to  draw  from  him  the  liistory 
of  his  singular  life,  I  have  written  this.  Yet 
he  may  have  left  the  place,  for  I  have  not  seen 
him  since  he  left  my  office  this  morning. 

January  1st. — I  have  already  again  found 
my  strange  acquaintance  of  yesterday  morn- 
ing. It  seems  that  he  has  lodged  since  he  has 
been  in  the  place  at  the  principal  hotel,  coming 
in  late  at  night,  and  leaving  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  paying  punctually  for  his  bed  before  he 
retired  to  it.  This  morning  he  did  not  appear 
at  his  usual  hour,  and  when  one  of  the  servants 
entered  his  room  they  found  him  unable  to 
rise,  and  wishing  to  see  the  physician  at  whose 
house  he  had  passed  the  previous  night.  As 
he  did  not  know  my  name,  one  or  two  others 
had  been  summoned,  and  when  I  arrived  he 
said  : 

"  That  is  the  man,  now  leave  me  with  him." 
The  servant  retired,  and  I  moved  a  chair  to 
his  bedside  and  sat  down.     He  immediately 
began  : 

"  The  moment  is  approaching,  sir.  I  shall 
Boon  be  free  from  her,  though  she  is  determined 


THE  SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 


259 


to  stay  by  me  to  the  last.  There  she  is  now, 
standing  where  she  stood  when  I  shut  my  eyes 
last  night,  and  when  I  first  opened  them  this 
morning.  But  though  I  dare  not  look  at  her,  I 
feel  that  the  look  is  the  same — no  pity — no  re- 
lenting— and  it  should  be  so.  I  have  not  sent 
for  you,  Doctor,  hoping  that  you  can  do  any- 
thing to  help  me,  but  because  I  am  dying,  and 
because  I  know  you  better  than  any  one  else 
here,  and  because  you  have  shown  an  interest 
in  me.     Do  you  believe  there  is  a  God  ?" 

I  assured  him  that  I  did,  and  was  a  firm  be- 
liever in  the  Christian  religion. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  continued — "  a  righteous  God 
— stem  and  just — yes,  just.  And  I  shall  soon 
stand  before  his  face,  and  meet  her  there,  and 

then .     But  before  I  go,  I  wish  to  unburden 

my  mind  of  the  load  that  has  weighed  me  down 
for  so  many  years.  I  am  not  mad  now,  though 
I  believe  I  have  been.  This  morning  I  feel  as 
I  have  not  felt  before  in  many  long  and  dark 
years,  all  of  which  are  now  before  me  as  plain 
as  she  is ;  and  they  have  been  full  of  misery,  but 
blackened  only  with  one  crime,  and  that,  a 
damning  one.  I  wish  to  tell  you  all,  and  when 
I  have  done,  then,  if  you  will,  you  may  call  in 
the  ministers  of  justice." 

I  proposed  to  him  that  a  clergyman  should 
be  present,  as  he  might  be  able  to  administer 
some  consolation  to  him,  but  he  refused.  He 
would  see  one  afterwards,  and  would  have  him 
pray  with  him.  But  he  would  relate  his  story 
to  me  alone.  So  after  a  pause  of  a  few  mo- 
ments he  began : 

"  Mean  as  my  appearance  is,  and  has  been 
ever  since  you  first  saw  me,  it  is  not  for  want 
of  means.  I  am  rich.  I  am  the  eldest  of  two 
sons  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  merchants  in 

.     He  died  leaving  a  large  fortune,  divided 

between  my  brother  and  myself.  My  brother 
was  married  at  that  time,  though  I  was  not  for 
several  years  afterwards.  He  was  brought  up 
to  the  same  business  with  my  father,  while  I 
received  an  education  which  I  finished  in  one 
of  the  Eastern  colleges  ;  and  having  a  turn  for 
letters,  I  engaged  in  no  active  business.  After 
my  father's  death,  I  removed  to  a  distant  city, 
where  I  resided  for  a  number  of  years.  There 
I  became  acquainted  with  a  young  lady,  the 
daughter  of  a  respectable  mechanic,  but  a  girl 
of  rare  beauty.  I  was  fascinated  with  her  ap- 
pearance, and  the  more  I  saw  of  her,  the  deeper 
and  stronger  hold  did  she  gain  upon  my  heart. 
I  thought  it  was  the  same  with  her,  though  in 
my  personal  appearance  there  was  nothing  at- 


tractive, but  rather  the  opposite.  But  I  was 
rich,  and  gold  and  tinsel  cover  up  all  deformi- 
ties. I  believe  it  was  so  with  her.  She  loved 
me  for  my  money,  while  I  loved  her  for  her 
beauty.  There  we  were  even,  for  one  has 
turned  out  as  worthless  as  the  other.  She  was 
many  years  younger  than  I,  but  that  formed  no 
obstacle  to  our  union.     We  were  married. 

"  I  need  hardly  gay  that  the  first  months  of 
our  married  life  were  happy.  Nothing  oc- 
curred to  interrupt  our  enjoyment.  We  both 
had  obtained  the  object  we  sought — she,  gold, 
and  I,  beauty.  It  is  true,  that  now  and  then  I 
noticed  that  she  seemed  to  be  suspicious  and 
discontented  at  my  occasional  absences  from 
home,  but  I  laughed  her  suspicions  away  and 
thought  no  more  of  them.  But  about  a  year 
after  we  were  married,  my  brother,  who  had 
lost  his  wife,  and  been  ruined  by  unfortunate 
business  operations,  died,  leaving  his  only  son, 
a  boy  of  seven  years,  to  my  brotherly  care.  I 
hastened  to  claim  the  child  and  bring  him  to 
my  own  house.  By  some  strange  freak  of 
nature,  although  there  was  little  if  any  resem- 
blance between  my  brother  and  me,  yet  the 
boy  was  the  very  counterpart  of  myself.  He 
was  no  sooner  established  in  the  house,  but  the 
demon  of  jealousy  took  up  his  abode  in  the 
heart  of  my  wife.  It  first  showed  itself  in  her 
treatment  of  the  child,  and  once  an  unguarded 
word  escaped  her  lips  that  revealed  to  me  the 
secret  I  remonstrated  with  her — kindly  and 
affectionately  told  her  the  whole  history  of  my 
family,  and  used  every  means  to  convince  her 
of  her  mistake.  It  did  no  good.  I  laughed  at 
her,  and  the  mild  woman  became  converted 
into  a  raging  fury,  and  I  left  the  house.  \\Tien 
I  returned,  all  was  changed.  The  cloud  seemed 
to  have  passed  by,  and  though  she  said  not  a 
word  about  what  had  passed,  she  seemed  to 
make  an  effort  to  drive  the  memory  of  it  from 
my  mind.  This  of  course  was  not  a  difficult 
matter,  and  we  were  immediately  restored  to 
our  usual  harmony.  Still,  to  the  boy  she 
could  not  be  kind,  and  he  became  very  unhappy. 
Once  she  tried  to  persuade  me  to  send  him 
away  from  home  to  school.  But  he  was  so 
young,  and  a  desolate  orphan,  that  I  could  not 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  it. 

"  But  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  conceal  it,  the 
demon  was  still  actively  working  at  her  heart- 
I  soon  thought  I  could  see  she  was  watching 
me  singularly  in  all  my  actions  towards  the 
child.  She  was  uneasy  when  I  was  teaching 
him  anything  or  playing  with  him.     The  same 


260 


THE  SPECTRE-HAUNTED 


was  apparent  before  long  in  other  things,  and 
I  was  annoyed  with  it.  Again  I  attempted  to 
reason  with  her,  and  again  she  became  furious. 
She  taunted  me  with  unfaithfulness,  and  heaped 
the  vilest  epithets  upon  me  and  the  unoffending 
child ;  and  I  again  left  her,  to  find  her  again, 
upon  my  return,  calm  and  pleasant.  I  relate 
ail  these  things  so  minutely,  that  you  may  see 
all  the  steps  that  drove  me  on  to  become  what 
I  have  been,  and  what  I  am. 

"  From  this  time  I  knew  that  I  was  watched 
in  all  my  motions,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  dis- 
guise it.  Wherever  I  went,  she  came,  only  a 
few  steps  behind  me.  It  began  to  be  talked  of 
among  our  acquaintance.  I  heard  it — I  saw  it 
in  their  looks.  They  pitied  me  and  despised 
my  wife.  I  felt  that  my  feelings  were  changing 
towards  her.  I  began  to  loathe  her  presence. 
I  could  not  bear  to  be  with  her,  for  I  felt  that 
her  eye  was  always  upon  me.  Wherever  I 
was  I  expected  that  she  soon  would  be,  and  the 
sneers  of  men  would  follow.  My  home  was 
unhappy,  for  now  it  was  the  constant  scene  of 
scornful  and  cruel  suspicion  and  reproaches. 
Now  I  hated  her.  I  could  have  felt  a  sort  of 
joy  if  she  had  died.  It  would  have  delivered 
me  from  what  I  felt  to  be  a  curse. 

"  I  ceased  to  visit  my  friends.  I  wandered 
tlie  streets  half  distracted,  and  here  one  day,  as 
my  attention  was  suddenly  called  back,  I  dis- 
covered my  wife  following  my  footsteps. 
From  tliat  moment,  I  believe,  I  was  mad.  I 
hurried  home,  and  she  was  there  a  few  minutes 
after  me.  All  that  I  said  to  her  I  do  not  recol- 
lect, but  I  know  that  I  cursed  her  bitterly,  and 
swore  never  to  live  with  her  again ;  and  she 
vowed,  that  go  where  I  would  she  would  follow 
in  my  footsteps.  I  went  to  my  attorney,  and 
coolly  arranged  all  my  business  with  him,  and 
left  the  management  of  my  property  in  his 
hands,  having  settled  upon  my  wife,  for  her 
life,  nearly  one  half  of  what  I  was  worth.  I 
then  returned  to  my  house,  told  her  what  I 
had  done,  and  taking  the  poor  boy  with  me, 
left  that  night  for  a  distant  part  of  the  coun- 
try, where  I  thought  she  would  not  find  me,  if 
she  should  search  for  me. 

"  I  was  deceived.  I  know  not  how  she  dis- 
covered my  refuge,  but  one  day,  in  my  walk 
which  I  took  daily,  I  suddenly  perceived  her 
following  a  few  paces  behind  mo.  She  fol- 
lowed me  to  my  lodgings  atid  spoke  to  me,  but 
I  did  not  answer  her,  and  again  she  promised 
never  to  leave  me.  Again  I  fled— from  one 
place  to  another ;  but  she  always  tracked  me 


out,  though  after  that  she  never  again  spoke  to 
me,  or  entered  the  house  where  I  was,  till  she 

came  to  ,  where  you  saw  us.     I  exerted 

all  the  cunning  I  was  master  of  to  escape  her, 
but  in  vain.  For  days  and  weeks  did  I  travel 
without  stopping  hardly  to  allow  the  poor  boy 
to  rest,  in  hopes  of  wearing  out  or  deceiving 
her  vigilance ;  and  when  at  last  I  stepped  in 

,  I  had  a  faint  hope  that  I  had  succeeded. 

Yet  though  I  was  there  a  year  before  she  came, 
something  always  seemed  to  tell  me,  that  come 
she  would,  and  I  tried  to  be  ready.  She  did 
come,  and  met  me  in  the  street,  and  called  me 
by  name,  and  I  was  in  despair.  For  weeks 
she  joined  me  in  my  walks,  always^  keeping  a 
few  paces  in  the  rear  ;  but  though  I  did  not  see 
her,  I  always  knew  she  was  theie. 

"  I  cannot  tell  all  the  feelings  that  grew  up 
and  crowded  together  in  my  brain  thrcxigh  all 
this  time.  I  thought  of  self-destruction  ;  but 
the  poor  desolate  child  by  my  side  called  upon 
me  to  live,  and  I  lived  on,  for  him.  I  knew 
that  I  was  mad  in  this  one  point  of  my  wife 
and  her  persecution,  and  I  loathed  and  hated 
her  with  all  my  soul.  But  I  did  not  think  of 
ridding  myself  of  her  presence  by  destroying 
her,  though  I  would  have  given  up  all  I  pos- 
sessed on  earth  to  be  freed  from  her.  I  had 
done  so,  and  was  living  in  all  the  appearance 
of  utter  poverty  and  without  a  friend  or  ac- 
quaintance. I  believe  she  was  mad  too — crazed 
by  her  terrible  suspicion.  Why  else  should 
she  follow  me  thus  ? 

"  About  a  month  after  she  found  me  in , 

when  I  returned  from  one  of  my  daily  walks, 
followed  as  usual  by  her,  as  I  entered  the 
house,  I  neglected  to  close  the  door  behind  me, 
and  she  entered  and  took  her  seat  by  the  fire. 
It  was  a  piercing  cold  day,  and  perhaps  she 
did  it  unconsciously.  But  there  she  sat  till 
night  came  on.  Midnight  came,  and  still  she 
did  not  offer  to  go.  The  boy  had  fallen  asleep 
and  slept  soundly  in  his  chair.  I  had  grown 
unca.sy  through  the  evening — I  felt  more  and 
more  restless  as  the  hour  grew  late.  She  said 
nothing,  neither  did  she  look  at  me,  and  I  \\'ould 
not  speak  to  her.  As  the  clock  struck  one,  she 
looked  up — looked  rjght  in  my  face,  and  said  : 

"  '  Hiram  Fuller,  you  want  me  to  go  ;  but  I 
shall  never  leave  you  again.  You  will  not 
escape  me  now  ;'  and  she  laughed  tauntingly. 

"  I  rose  and  walked  the  floor.  A  fire  was 
beginning  to  burn  in  my  brain,  that,  mad  as  I 
was,  made  me  shudder.  Again  she  laughed, 
and  with  a  bitter  taunt  pointed  at  the  boy.     I 


A    TRIBUTE    TO    THE    DEP.\RTED. 


261 


coii'd  bear  it  no  longer.  My  hand  was  on  her 
throat  There  \yas  a  short  struggle.  One 
moment,  and  she  had  ceased  to  breathe.  I 
looked  an  instant  upon  her  face,  and  turned 
away.  There  she  stood,  between  me  and  the 
door  at  which  she  had  entered.  The  same 
devilish  smile  was  on  her  face — tlie  same  scorn 
curled  her  lip — and  I  thought  I  heard  her  say, 
'  I  shall  never  leave  you  again.'  She  never 
has  left;  me. 

"  One  hour  from  that  time  the  body  was  con- 
cealed, and  with  the  boy  I  was  on  ray  way  from 
the  place.  Mad  as  I  war  on  this  one  subject, 
I  was  in  the  full  possession  6f  my  senses  on 
all  others.  I  knew  there  would  be  nothing 
strange  in  two  such  beings  being  missed  at  the 
same  time,  and  by  day-break  I  had  travelled 
many  miles.  Since  that  time  she  has  been  for- 
ever with  me.  Look  where  I  will  I  see  her, 
— go  where  I  will,  she  follows  me.  I  went 
back  to  my  home.  Men  pitied  me,  but  some 
asked  about  my  wife.  I  placed  the  boy  in  a 
school,  and  made  my  will,  leaving  all  my  prop- 
erty to  him.  Since  that  time  I  have  been  a 
wanderer.     About  a  year  ago  I  went  back  to 

.     So  heavy  had  become  my  burden  that 

I  longed  to  be  rid  of  it,  even  at  the  expense  of 


my  life,  and  I  almost  hoped  I  should  be  sus- 
pected and  arrested  for  the  murder.  But  I  was 
not,  and  again  I  wandered  on.  I  was  sustainci 
by  a  supernatural  strength,  till  yesterday,  when 
1  lay  down  for  the  first  time  through  weari- 
ness. You  have  now  heard  my  story.  Now 
call  in  the  officers  of  justice,  and  let  me  die."' 

Such  was  his  singular  narrative.  But  why 
give  him  up  to  the  law  ?  He  was  evidently  a 
lunatic,  and  just  ready  to  die,  and  the  whole 
story  might  be  only  one  of  the  vagaries  of  his 
wild  and  disordered  mind.  After  his  death, 
which  took  place  in  a  few  days,  I  wrote  to  my 

friend  in  ,  and  he  had  the  premises  which 

the  stranger  had  occupied  thoroughly  searched 
as  privately  as  possible,  but  nothing  was  dis- 
covered to  corroborate  the  account  he  gave. 
The  woman,  however,  had  never  since  been 
seen  with  him  ;  yet  I  have  satisfied  myself,  as 
far  as  I  can  be  satisfied,  that  the  whole  story 
was  the  raving  of  a  lunatic,  who  perhaps  had 
suffered  at  first  from  ungrounded  jealousy,  and 
had  eventually  succeeded  in  evading  her  search 
by  his  incessant  wanderings  from  place  to 
place.  But  the  spectral  image  haunted  him 
to  the  last. 


A  fllEllOrfIg  f(D   'JTIEIIg   IDIglP^IR'flgllD. 


One  year  ago,  he  stood  with  us,  amid  this  garden  fair. 

He  mark'dthe  beauty  of  the  flowers,  he  bless'd  the  summer  air; 

He  spoke  of  sunny  climes  afar,  where  joyfully  he  stray'd, 

While  here,  chill  winter's  veil  was  thrown  o'er  every  hill  and  glade. 

He  look'd  as  one  whose  heart  was  full  of  gentle  thoughts  and  pure, 
He  look'd  as  one  who'd  learn 'd  life's  lore,  to  smile,  yet  to  endure ; 
His  eye  oft  turn'd  to  her  he  lov'd— e'en  to  his  sister's  face, 
And  aye,  though  silent,  seem'd  to  speak  words  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

And  then  he  sought  to  share  the  glee  of  a  dear  little  child — 
Our  Willie,  darling  of  fond  hearts  !  on  thee  he  brightly  smiled, 
Then  thought,  perchance,  how  Jesus  blest  such  children  when  on  earth, 
And  how  "  their  angels"  look  on  God — then  hushed  his  careless  mirth. 

He  said  that  he  was  going  home — to  that  dear  place  and  best. 

Home  to  his  father's  open  arms — home  to  his  mother's  breast. 

Oh !  bless'd  the  weary  child  of  earth,  oh  !  blessed  that  pilgrim  lone, 

Who  yet  may  hear,  "  Come  home,  my  child  !  come,  loved  one,  to  thine  own." 


262 


THE    NUN. 


Tmii  MWH, 


A  LARGE  and  brilliant  crowd  was  assembled 
in  the  convent-chapel  of  one  of  our  largest 
southern  cities,  to  witness  the  ceremony  of 
"  taking  the  veil."  The  novice  was  young 
and  beautiful ;  and  they  wondered  that  one  so 
lovely  should  resign  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
to  seek  the  solitude  and  unvarying  sameness 
of  a  gloomy  convent,  in  the  spring-time  of 
youth  and  gladness. 

Arrayed  in  the  splendid  dress  in  which  the 
novitiate  takes  her  final  leave  of  worldly 
scenes  and  worldly  interests,  Angelina  Dalton 
was  indeed  beautiful.  Her  dark  hair  was 
parted  on  a  brow  where  intellect  was  written 
in  unmistakable  characters,  and  there  was  an 
inspiration  in  tlie  upturned  eyes  that  bespoke  a 
lofty  enthusiasm.  She  seemed  totally  insensi- 
ble to  the  multitude  around — carried  away  by 
the  full  swelling  notes  of  the  organ,  mingled 
with  the  soft  voices  of  the  nuns  that  came  float- 
ing on  tlie  air,  wrapping  the  soul  in  a  sort  of 
dreamy  delight. 

"  Soon  would  she  call  that  bright-eyed  train 
sisters — together  they  would  pursue  their  works 
of  love  and  charity,  secure  in  their  calm  re- 
treat from  the  disturbances  of  a  malicious 
world."  These  were  tlie  thoughts  which  filled 
the  mind  of  Angelina  Dalton,  during  the  cere- 
mony which  was  to  render  her  henceforth  as 
one  dead  to  the  world.  There  is  in  the  forms 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  something  pe- 
culiarly impressive ;  even  though  we  condemn 
their  practices,  we  cannot  wholly  shut  our  eyes 
to  the  beautiful  solemnity  that  characterizes 
them.  Angelina  was  of  an  ardent  and  enthu- 
siastic temperament,  and  completely  carried 
away  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  The 
only  child  of  wealthy  parents,  she  had  from 
her  earliest  youth  been  accustomed  to  consider 
her  own  will  as  a  law  to  those  around ;  but 
though  pride  and  vanity  had  nearly  choked  up 
her  good  qualities,  there  were  moments  and  ac- 
tions which  indicated,  that  with  proper  disci- 
pline, she  might  have  been  an  ornament  to  her 
wjx.  There  are  some  tempers  which  seem  to 
liave  been  made  just  so  by  nature — to  stay 
just  as  they  are  placed — and  to  require  no  effort 
to  keep  them  from  becoming  worse ;  but  Ange- 


lina's was  one  of  those  natures  that  must 
either  rise  or  fall ;  become  a  great  deal  better, 
or  a  great  deal  worse  ;  endowed  with  a  perpet- 
ual restlessness  for  some  change,  and  of  course 
influenced  by  surrounding  circumstances. 

She  had  attended  a  French  boarding-school 
for  several  years,  ac  some  distance  from  her 
native  city,  and  during  that  time  false  ideas 
and  impressions  were  slowly  but  surely  instilled 
into  her  mind.  There  was  apparently  on  the 
part  of  her  instructors,  no  desire  to  change  her 
opinions  ;  tliere  was  no  railing  against  Protes- 
tants, and  the  Protestant  religion ;  they  re- 
garded her  not  as  an  object  of  scorn,  but  of 
pity.  These  circumstances  awakened  her  curi- 
osity, and  induced  a  reflection  whether  Papists 
were  indeed  arch  hypocrites,  or  whether  they 
had  not  been  most  strangely  belied.  Ange- 
lina's parents  were  not  professing  Christians  : 
they  were  regular  in  their  attendance  at  church, 
and  their  characters  stood  high  in  the  opinion 
of  the  world ;  but  they  had  made  no  public 
avowal  of  their  faith — they  had  never  taught 
their  child  the  value  of  true  Christian  princi- 
ples— never  directed  her  footsteps  in  the  road 
that  leads  to  heaven.  There  were,  therefore, 
no  liallowed  ties  to  counteract  the  evil  influ- 
ence of  these  new  doctrines — no  softening  rec- 
ollections of  the  prayer  breathed  at  a  mother's 
knee — of  her  gentle  hand  upon  her  child's 
head,  as  she  invoked  a  blessing ;  there  were 
none  of  these  to  undermine  the  work  as  it  pro- 
ceeded. All  was  open  to  the  attack,  every 
point  was  assailed,  and  triumphantly  did  they 
watch  their  success.  Her  keen  perception  of 
the  beautiful  was  directed  to  the  seducing  cere- 
monies of  tlieir  religion,  so  opposite,  in  her 
opinion,  to  the  rigid  sternness  of  the  Presbyte- 
rian forms  ;  passages  were  produced  from  their 
Bibles,  which  bewildered  her  mind,  and  left  her 
more  in  the  dark  than  ever.  The  solemn  coun- 
tenance of  the  priest,  in  his  full,  flowing  robes, 
seemed  to  rebuke  her  for  harboring  a  doubt  of 
the  purity  of  tiicir  faitli.  She  was  afforded 
many  opportunities  of  mingling  with  the  nuns; 
they  always  seemed  happy  and  cheerful,  and 
s])oko  of  the  cloister  as  the  only  Paradise  upon 
earth.     Angelina  became  melancholy  and  un-    * 


THE    NUN. 


•2fi3 


happy.  During  her  short  visits  to  her  parents, 
ihey  noticed  with  anxiety  her  pale  cheeks  and 
heavy  spirits ;  but  she  evaded  their  questions, 
and  carefully  abstained  from  all  mention  of  the 
subject  nearest  her  thoughts.  The  hearts  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dalton  were  bound  up  in  their 
daughter ;  with  fond  delight  they  had  beheld 
the  bud  expand  into  a  flower  of  perfect  beauty  ; 
and  they  now  felt  that  to  lose  her,  would  be  to 
blot  out  all  the  joys  of  their  existence.  They 
regarded  with  horror  the  innovations  of  Poper}% 
and  never  suspected  that  their  beloved  daugh- 
ter was  becoming  a  convert  to  its  fascinating 
influences. 

When  at  length  the  intelligence  burst  upon 
them,  they  were  completely  overwhelmed  by 
the  blow.  Each  gazed  into  the  other's  face 
for  words  of  hope  that  might  not  be  spoken — 
for  some  cheering  ray  to  soften  their  distress  ; 
but  alas !  their  lonely  hearts  replied  that  it 
was  vain.  The  time  was  past  to  avert  this 
calamity;  henceforth  their  daughter — their 
onlv,  their  idolized  daughter — was  lost  to  them 
forever ! 

"  We  may  yet  save  her,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton. 
"I  will  try  what  a  mother's  influence  can 
effect.  She  could  not  be  insensible  to  my 
entreaties,"  continued  the  unhappy  parent — 
"  could  not  despise  a  mother's  prayers  and 
tears,  for  the  counsels  of  her  worst  enemies. 
The  unfortunate  girl  labors  under  a  strange 
delusion,  the  falseness  of  which  she  may,  alas ! 
discover  too  late." 

"  We  will  go,"  replied  the  father,  "  and  urge 
her  by  the  remembrance  of  those  early  ties, 
which  are  ever  fresh  in  the  mind,  to  return  to 
us.  She  was  our  idol,  and  severely  are  we 
punished  for  our  blind  and  selfish  love." 

Angelina  received  her  parents  with  the  man- 
ner of  one  whose  afiections  and  interests  were 
totally  different ;  she  informed  them  of  her 
resolution  to  devote  herself  to  a  life  of  peni- 
tence and  charity,  and  bid  them  adieu  forever. 
The  mother  threw  herself  on  her  daughter's 
bosom,  and  wept  in  agony ;  while  the  father 
knelt  before  his  child,  and  besought  her,  as  she 
/alued  her  own  happiness,  to  abandon  her  wild 
lesign,  and  return  to  those  parents  whose  love 
for  her  would  cease  only  with  life  itself.  A 
hidden  chord  was  vibrating  in  the  dauorhter's 
heart  ;  there  were  strange  feelings  and  old  re- 
membrances that  bound  her  to  her  home — to 
those  whose  faces  had  been  familiar  from  child- 
hood— whose  names  were  the  first  that  trembled 
on  her  lips  ;  but  then  came  stem  and  mistaken 


thoughts  of  duty ;  and  with  a  strong  eflTort,  she 
quelled  the  rising  tenderness,  and  repeated  her 
intention  of  binding  herself  with  vows  that 
could  not  be  lightly  shaken  off. 

The  ceremony  proceeded,  and  though  the 
cheek  of  the  lovely  novice  was  pale  with  emo- 
tion, there  was  high  determination  in  the  small 
firm  mouth ;  she  felt  in  her  beautiful  delusion 
as  though  the  gates  of  the  celestial  world  were 
already  opened,  and  heavenly  messengers  beck- 
oned her  in. 

At  length  the  young  girl  appeared  for  the 
last  time  to  the  eyes  of  the  admiring  multitude. 
Clad  in  a  robe  of  black,  with  her  bright  tresses 
severed  from  her  head,  there  was  nothing  but 
her  peerless  beauty  to  distinguish  her  fro.m  the 
train  that  waited  her  approach.  She  carried 
in  her  hand  a  lighted  taper,  and  having  ex- 
pressed her  perfect  willingness  to  resign  the 
world,  Angelina  Dalton  was  lost  in  the  sister 
Constance.  As  she  disappeared  with  the  nuns, 
there  was  a  heavy  groan,  and  the  lifeless  form 
of  the  unhappy  mother  was  borne  from  the 
chapel. 

The  desolate  parents  returned  to  their  joy- 
less home,  where  everything  reminded  them  of 
the  daughter  they  had  lost.  Plans  had  been 
formed  for  the  time  when  she  would  return  to 
them  in  matured  loveliness  ;  the  realization  of 
their  hopes  was  now  suddenly  blasted,  and 
neither  could  comfort  the  other  in  their  distress. 
They  turned  to  their  long-neglected  Bibles,  and 
found  there  words  of  hope  and  light.  It  was 
not  too  late  to  retrieve  the  errors  of  their  past 
lives,  and  hand  in  hand  they  sought  that  com- 
fort, which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take 
away.  With  humble  hearts  they  approached 
the  throne  of  grace,  and  prayed  for  the  erring 
one  who  had  planted  a  thorn  in  their  hearts. 
"  She  may  yet  return  to  us,"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  sad  smile ;  "  she  may  return  a  penitent 
child,  ready  to  atone  for  her  fault.  In  her 
dreary  solitude  memories  of  home  will  come 
sweeping  across  her  heart ;  and  perhaps,  even 
now,  her  pillow  is  nightly  bedewed  with  tears 
for  the  parents  whose  hearts  are  yearning  to 
receive  her." 

Mr.  Dalton  mournfully  shook  his  head,  and 
gazed  into  the  fire,  as  if  to  read  the  meaning  of 
the  uncouth  images  that  presented  themselves 
to  his  view,  among  the  decaying  embers.  Since 
his  child's  desertion  he  was  an  altered  man ; 
his  old  occupations  no  longer  afforded  him 
pleasure  ;  all  appeared  strange  to  liim,  and  he 
would  sit  for  hours  brooding  over  his  loss,  in- 


264 


THE    NUN. 


capable  of  makincj  the  least  exertion.  At  the 
opening  of  a  doot  he  wonld  start,  and  a  flush  of 
pleasure  tint  his  pale  cheek,  as  though  expect- 
ing to  see  the  beloved  form  once  more  sit  down 
by  him  as  in  times  of  old,  and  with  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  prattle  to  him  in  her  sweet, 
childish  tones.  Then,  as  sad  consciousness  re- 
turned, he  would  sink  into  his  usual  apathy, 
apparently  indifferent  to  all  that  took  place 
around  him.  Mrs.  Dalton  would  often  steal  to 
her  daughter's  chamber,  and  weep  in  solitude. 
The  furniture  had  never  been  disturbed ;  all 
was  just  as  she  left  it;  her  favorite  volumes 
still  filled  the  shelves ;  the  walls  were  adorned 
with  her  drawings  ;  and  her  pet  canary  occu- 
pied his  old  position,  fed  always  by  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Dalton,  who  felt  that  in  doing  so,  she 
was  in  some  way  fulfilling  the  wishes  of  her 
absent  daughter. 

Angelina  entered  with  enthusiasm  upon  her 
new  mode  of  life  ;  all  was  couleur  de  rose,  and 
the  novelty  of  her  new  employments  contributed 
in  a  great  degree  to  prevent  that  feeling  of  irk- 
someness  attendant  upon  a  routine  of  duties 
that  never  varies.  She  mistook  the  effect  of 
brilliant  and  imposing  ceremonies,  for  feelings 
of  deep  and  holy  devotion ;  and  she  regarded 
the  quiet  and  subdued  manner  of  her  sister 
nuns,  as  an  emblem  of  their  purity,  and  an 
evidence  of  the  holy  calm  that  reigned  within. 
The  abbess  treated  her  with  peculiar  and 
marked  attention — never  imposed  heavy  pen- 
ances on  her — and  affected  a  motherly  kind- 
ness towards  her. 

All  this  was  delightful  to  one  of  Angelina's 
temperament  ;  but  by  degrees  things  began  to 
change ;  she  could  discover  that  in  many  in- 
stances, beneath  that  calm,  saint-like  demeanor 
of  the  nuns,  there  lurked  a  hidden  desire  to  see 
something  of  the  great  world  that  was  pro- 
nounced so  bad.  Most  of  them  had  resided  in 
the  convent  from  their  earliest  childhood,  and,  at 
a  suitable  age,  took  the  veil,  scarcely  knowing 
that  there  was  a  world  beyond  the  limits  of 
their  prison.  Our  heroine  slowly  opened  her 
eyes  to  the  fact,  that  her  companions  were  not 
the  perfect  mortals  she  had  supposed  them  to 
be — that  they  were  endowed  by  nature  with 
the  same  passions  as  their  fellow-creatures — 
and  that  a  calm  exterior  cannot  entirely  subdue 
the  heart.  There  were  many  points  about  her 
new  doctrines  that  puzzled  her;  and  con- 
science whispered  that  all  was  not  right.  How 
nhe  longed  for  some  friend,  to  whom  she  could 
tiiiburthen  her  difficulties — one  who  would  en- 


able her  to  see  things  in  a  clearer  light.  The 
priests  and  heads  of  the  convent  evidently  sus- 
pected her  of  a  lingering  heresy,  and  strove  to 
destroy  the  effect  of  her  inquiries  by  some 
master-piece  of  reasoning  that  silenced,  but  did 
not  convince  her.  She  bitterly  regretted  her 
haste  in  taking  the  veil,  and  felt  a  longing  de- 
sire to  see  her  parents,  and  revisit  her  home 
once  more.  "  Perhaps  they  might  be  dying — 
dying  from  her  cruel  neglect,  and  she  would 
never  see  them  again  f"  These  thoughts  dis- 
turbed her  mind,  and  she  resolved  to  return 
home,  and  throw  off  the  fetters  that  were  wear- 
ing her  down.  She  would  be  obliged,  she 
knew,  to  effect  this  by  stratagem,  for  the  ab- 
bess denounced,  with  the  utmost  horror,  those 
who  broke  their  vows  to  the  church;  and  she 
watched  an  opportunity  to  escape  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  companions.  Often  was  she 
foiled  in  her  attempts,  till  she  almost  began  to 
despair ;  but  at  length  she  succeeded,  and  once 
more  breathed  the  free  air.  She  experienced 
a  delightful  sensation  on  feeling  that  she  was 
indeed  free ;  and  turning  her  back  on  the 
gloomy  convent,  she  directed  her  steps  towards 
her  native  city,  fully  confident  of  reaching 
home  on  foot,  and  by  her  own  exertions,  while 
under  the  bracing  influence  which  the  first 
consciousness  of  freedom  always  bestows.  She 
had  proceeded  several  miles  on  her  journey, 
when,  overcome  by  the  unusual  fatigue,  she 
paused  for  rest  at  a  cottage  on  the  road.  The 
door  was  opened  by  an  elderly  woman,  in  reply 
to  her  tremulous  knock,  and,  unable  to  an- 
nounce her  errand,  she  sunk  down  upon  the 
threshold  insensible. 

A  long  period  of  delirium  followed.  At  one 
moment  she  would  chant  the  convent  services 
in  a  voice  of  tremulous  sweetness,  and  then 
pray  to  return  to  her  parents,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
tress that  drew  tears  from  the  eyes  of  her  at- 
tendants. During  the  time  of  her  illness,  a 
familiar  form  seemed  to  flit  around  her  bedside; 
a  soothing  hand  held  the  cordial,  and  smoothed 
the  snowy  pillow ;  a  well-known,  voice  seemed 
to  be  ringing  in  her  ears  ;  and,  as  if  fearing  to 
awake  from  a  pleasant  dream,  Angelina  raised 
herself  on  the  couch,  and  was  folded  in  the 
embrace  of  her  mother ! 

Long  tliey  wept  in  each  other's  arms,  and  the 
father,  with  the  tears  of  joy  streaming  from  his 
eyes,  exclaimed,  "  The  lost  is  found  !" — "  And 
never,  I  hope,  to  wander  again  !"  replied  the 
penitent  girl.  "  Oh  mother  !  if  you  but  knew 
what  I  have  suffered,  you  would  think  me  suffi- 


OLD    TRADITIONS. 


265 


ciently  punished  !  I  reflect  with  horror  upon  the 
idolatrous  error  of  wliich  I  have  been  guilty. 
No  consideration  would  induce  me  to  return !" 
When  tlie  abbess  and  sisterhood  discovered 
that  the  bird  had  flown,  their  rage  and  astonish- 
ment exceeded  description.  A  search  was  in- 
stantly commenced,  in  hopes  of  recovering  the 
fugitive,  who  was  at  length  traced  to  the  house 
of  her  parents.  The  abbess  waited  upon  An- 
gelina in  person,  and  denounced  her  as  one  be- 
yorfd  the  pale  of  mercy — as  a  criminal  of  the 
deepest  dye. 


But  little  more  remains  to  be  told.  Angelina 
was  once  more  the  joy  of  the  family  circle ;  and 
though  her  spirits  never  recovered  their  former 
elasticity  and  playfulness,  there  was  a  serene 
smile  on  her  pale  countenance,  and  a  light  in 
the  soft  eyes,  that  told  of  contentment  within. 
The  lesson  had  been  a  severe  one ;  but  she 
rose  from  the  bed  of  sickness,  purified  from  pas- 
sions that  left  their  withering  mark. 


BY     MRS.     E.     F.     ELLET. 

"  Shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by — 
The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  Dream." 

PROMETHEnS   UNBOUND. 

THE    DEVIL'S    WALL. 


A  LEGEND   OF   THE   EAKLY    AGES   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 


In  the  valley  between  Blankenburg  and  the 
Rosstrappe  there  stood,  in  olden  time,  a  ham- 
let— Blanka — all  trace  of  which  has  long  since 
disappeared.  The  Blankenburg  which  is  still 
in  existence,  was  at  first  peopled  by  its  inhabit- 
ants, who  found  greater  security  in  a  more  ele- 
vated situation,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
castle.  There  stood,  in  the  days  of  Charle- 
magne, some  distance  above  the  hamlet,  a 
grove,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  the  altar  con- 
secrated to  Croto,  the  deity  of  the  caverns.  Here 
the  loveliest  of  the  maidens  who  dwelt  in  that 
region,  was  accustomed  to  meet  her  lover — • 
Egbert,  the  bravest  and  noblest  among  all  the 
young  knights. 

He  lived  in  a  castle  some  leagues  distant ; 
and  had  first  seen  and  loved  the  beautiful  Thus- 
nelda  in  her  quiet  home,  during  her  father's 
absence  at  the  feast  of  Stufib — the  god  of  wine 
in  the  creed  of  the  ancient  Germans.  Their  love 
met  with  the  obstacle  usual  in  romance :  the 
father  of  the  maiden  forbade  her  to  think  of  Ec- 
bert,  and  informed  her  that  he  had  promised  her 
hand  to  a  kinsman  of  his  own.  His  opposition 
arose  from  the  difierence  in  religious  belief. 
Luitprand,  the  father,  was  a  zealous  votary  of 


the  ancient  creed  in  which  his  ancestors,  from 
immemorial  time,  had  worshipped.  Egbert  was 
an  ardent  convert  to  the  Christian  faith,  then 
preached,  witli  flaming  zeal,  throughout  the 
country,  by  missionaries  from  distant  lands. 

It  was  the  chief  desire  of  Egbert's  soul  to 
win  his  beloved  to  the  same  holy  faith  he  had 
embraced,  and  to  open  for  her  the  heaven  which, 
its  ministers  taught,  awaited  the  true  believer. 
When  they  met,  time  after  time,  by  the  heathen 
altar,  in  the  shadow  of  that  solemn  wood,  his 
talk  was  of  the  wonders  of  redemption,  which 
so  many  prophets  and  wise  men  had  desired  in 
vain  to  behold.  The  tender  heart  of  Thusnel- 
da  received  what  she  heard  ;  and  though  she 
could  not  comprehend  the  full  glory  of  the  doc- 
trine revealed  from  heaven,  the  simple  and 
spiritual  precepts  it  inculcated  were  deeply  im- 
pressed in  her  childhke  and  gentle  nature. 
She,  in  her  turn,  spoke  to  her  young  compan- 
ions of  the  new  and  marvellous  things  that 
had  been  told  her,  and  strove  to  persuade 
them  also  to  embrace  the  new  belief. 

It  was  not  long  before  intelligence  of  his 
daughter's  apostacy  from  the  faith  of  her  fa- 
thers, reached  the  haughty  and  fiery  Luitprand. 


266 


OLD    TRADITIONS. 


The  tempest  of  his  wrath  was  poured  in  all  its 
fury  on  the  head  of  the  young  girl,  who,  stead- 
fast in  her  reliance  on  a  higher  power,  avowed 
her  conversion,  and  confessed  her  secret  in- 
terviews with  the  knight,  her  lover.  When 
the  first  burst  of  rage  was  over,  her  father 
ordered  that  she  should  be  kept  a  prisoner  in 
her  chamber,  and  that  his  anned  servants 
should  watch  to  intercept  any  who  came  to 
the  house. 

The  day  and  the  hour  came,  on  which 
Thusnelda  had  promised,  according  to  her 
wont,  to  meet  Egbert.  She  was  surprised  by 
a  visit  from  her  father,  and  still  more  by  his 
command  that  she  should  go  forth  to  the  altar 
of  Croto,  and  there  abide  the  coming  of  her 
lover. 

A  fierce  light  gleamed  in  the  old  man's  eyes 
as  he  gave  this  command;  and  the  maiden 
divined  too  well  its  dreadful  import.  She 
knew  that  by  means  of  her,  and  through  his 
trusting  love,  the  young  knight  was  to  be  be- 
trayed into  an  ambush,  to  gratify  the  ven- 
geance of  his  enemies.  She  implored  her 
father  not  to  compel  her  to  go  to  the  wood  ; 
but  her  entreaties  and  her  tears  were  in  vain. 
His  violence  terrified  her,  and,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, she  rose  and  went  forth,  followed  at  a 
distance  by  Luitprand  and  his  armed  attend- 
ants, towards  the  altar  on  which  perhaps  her 
lover  was  doomed  to  be  immolated  as  a  victim. 

Meanwhile  Egbert,  mounted  on  his  good 
steed,  was  ascending  the  mountain  up  which 
the  road  led  to  the  sacred  wood.  A  storm 
came  on  suddenly  with  great  violence.  Masses 
of  black  clouds  obscured  the  sky,  rent  ever  and 
anon  by  vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  and  the  rain 
poured  down  in  thick  sheets  of  dark  water. 
The  swollen  streams  roared  through  the  forest, 
and  came  rushing  down  the  declivity,  bearing 
with  them  masses  of  lock  and  sweeping  trees 
from  the  soil.  The  brave  horse  struggled  on- 
ward, but  in  vain ;  his  strength  failed,  he  lost 
his  footing,  and  stood  still,  as  if  unwilling  to 
pursue  80  perilous  a  journey. 

To  return  was  at  present  even  more  hazard- 
ous ;  and  moreover,  the  young  knight  would 
have  thought  it  shame  to  be  driven  back  by  a 
storm,  from  going  to  the  place  of  rendezvous 
at  the  appointed  time.  He  remained,  therefore, 
in  the  same  spot,  waiting  for  the  violence  of 
the  tempest  to  abate. 

But  it  seemed  to  increase ;  the  winds  roared 
more  fiercely,  crashing  the  boughs  of  the  forest ; 
and  tlic  torrents  rushed  more  rapidly  under  his 


very  feet.  The  horse  could  scarcely  stand 
upright,  and  Egbert  kept  his  seat  only  with 
extreme  difficulty.  Through  the  gathering 
darkness  he  now  discerned  the  tall  figure  of  a 
man  descending  the  mountain,  and  walking  in 
the  midst  of  the  rushing  waters.  Almost  be- 
fore he  could  make  out  what  it  was,  the  figure 
stood  close  beside  him. 

"  You  must  return  home,"  said  the  man, 
authoritatively,  taking  hold  of  the  bridle  to 
turn  the  horse  round.  "  I  will  lead  your  steed 
down  the  hill,  for  I  am  well  acquainted  with 
the  road." 

Egbert  looked  surprised  at  the  stranger  who 
thus  unceremoniously  addressed  him.  In  his 
small,  keen,  piercing  eyes  was  a  strange  ex- 
pression, which  caused  a  secret  shudder  to  pass 
through  his  frame. 

"  Thusnelda  sends  me,"  continued  the  un- 
known. 

"  Thusnelda !"  repeated  the  knight.  "  And 
she  says " 

"  You  must  return  home." 

"  Never  !    She  did  not  say  that." 

"  There  is  a  snare  )'onder,"  said  the  stranger, 
pointing  towards  Croto's  grove.  "  Luitprand 
and  his  men  lie  in  wait  for  you." 

Egbert  believed  not  the  words  of  the  un- 
known. And  if  it  were  true,  he  said,  that 
the  servants  of  Luitprand  lay  in  wait,  he  wished 
but  the  opportunity  to  chastise  them.  A  host  of 
serfs  could  not  stand  before  the  sword  of  a  free 
knight. 

"  But  you  will  be  the  cause  of  Thusnelda's 
destruction,"  persisted  the  stranger.  "  Thor 
himself  commands  your  return,  sending  this 
fearful  storm  to  arrest  your  steps.  You  strive 
in  vain  against  his  will." 

And  in  truth,  further  advance,  against  the 
raging  tempest,  appeared  impossible.  There 
seemed  no  hope  of  its  abating ;  and  Egbert  re- 
luctantly suftered  the  unknown  to  turn  his 
horse  round.  He  led  him  safely  down  towards 
the  valley  ;  and  at  each  step  it  seemed  that  the 
fury  of  the  storm  diminished.  The  rain  had 
ceased  entirely  when  they  reached  the  valley. 

"I  will  bring  you  further  news,"  said  the 
strange  man.  "  But  you  must  come  no  more 
to  Blanka."  . 

Egbert  had  many  messages  to  send  to  his 
beloved  ;  but  the  unknown  seemed  in  haste,  and 
quickly  disappeared,  before  the  knight  could 
perceive  in  which  direction  he  had  gone. 

The  next  day,  Egbert  sent  secretly  a  mes- 
senger to  Blanka,  who  had  orders  to  bring  him 


O.D    TRADITIONS. 


367 


intelligence  of  all  that  had  passed.  His  own 
measures  he  would  then  take.  The  messen- 
ger, on  his  return,  confirmed  the  assertions  of 
the  stranger  in  the  forest. 

What  Luitprand  had  done  was  known  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  hamlet;  and  the  wood  was 
watciied  by  detachments  of  armed  men,  who 
relieved  each  other.  It  was  plain  that  the 
people  of  Blanka  had  made  common  cause  with 
Luitprand,  and,  burning  with  zeal  for  the  re- 
ligion of  their  fathers,  were  determined  to  root 
out  heresy  from  the  land  with  fire  and  sword. 
Of  the  unknown,  who  had  brought  warning  to 
Egbert,  the  messenger  could  discover  no  trace 
whatever. 

The  young  knight  was  one  who  could  not  be 
deterred  by  obstacles  from  the  pursuit  of  an  ob- 
ject. He  had  already  made  a  beginning  in  the 
enterprise  of  carrying  the  new  faith  into  the 
hamlet ;  he  spumed  at  the  dangers  to  be  en- 
countered, and  resolved  to  enter  into  a  league, 
for  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose,  with  a 
band  of  converts  to  Christianity  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. They  were  to  aid  him  in  the  in- 
vasion of  Blanka,  and  in  opening  the  eyes  of 
those  deluded  worshippers  of  heathen  divinities. 
The  rescue  of  Thusnelda  from  the  power  of 
her  unfeeling  father,  was  an  object  near  hi* 
heart,  which,  however,  he  did  not  make  osten- 
sible to  the  others. 

The  league  was  soon  formed,  and  the  day 
appointed  for  carrying  the  scheme  into  execu- 
tion. The  confederates  met  for  consultation  in 
one  of  the  caves,  which  were  in  those  days  the 
resort  of  hermits.  They  determined  to  set  out 
that  night  on  the  road  to  Blanka,  with  such 
force  as  to  compel  submission ;  to  enter  the 
hamlet  in  silence,  surprise  the  inhabitants,  and, 
if  possible,  force  them  to  yield  themselves  pris- 
oners without  the  shedding  of  blood. 

At  the  hour  named,  the  well-armed  proces- 
sion began  its  march  through  the  forest.  The 
night  was  starless  and  dark ;  it  seemed  as  if  a 
veil  had  been  drawn  over  the  heavens.  The 
men  moved  forward  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
on  account  of  the  ruggedness  of  the  path. 

They  had  passed  the  most  toilsome  part  of 
the  journey,  and  were  drawing  near  to  the  ham- 
let, when,  to  their  astonishment,  they  perceived 
just  before  them  a  high  and  precipitous  wall  of 
rocks.  What  this  meant  they  could  not  tell ; 
their  guide,  to  whom  the  way  was  familiar, 
assured  them  that  they  had  not  deviated  from  it. 
The  existence  of  such  a  stupendous  mass  of  rock 
was  unknown  to  any  one  in  the  whole  country. 


A  feeling  of  superstitious  terror  began  to 
possess  the  minds  of  those  who  had  embarked 
in  the  adventure.  The  deities  they  had  ab- 
jured— such  was  their  thought — had  thus  visi- 
bly interfered  to  protect  their  ancient  domain, 
and  prevent  the  advance  of  those  who  would 
destroy  their  altars  and  worship.  So  tottering 
was  their  belief  in  the  faith  they  had  lately  em- 
braced, that  they  trembled  before  the  anger  of 
those  they  had  declared  to  be  no  gods.  They 
remembered  not  that  it  is  only  the  prince  of 
darkness  and  his  agents,  who  oppose  the  pro- 
gress of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  and  that  the 
kingdom  of  Satan  must  inevitably  fall  before 
the  might  of  invincible  truth. 

Weary  and  discouraged,  the  confederates  at 
last  determined  to  await  the  return  of  daylight. 
As  the  morning  dawned,  they  saw  with  aston- 
ishment that  the  wall  extended  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  and  appeared  to  be  without  limit. 
The  hearts  of  all,  even  of  Egbert,  began  to  fail 
them ;  for  they  discerned  too  plainly  that  a 
supernatural  agency  had  been  here  at  work. 
Nothing  had  been  seen  of  the  rocky  wall  a  few 
days  previous.  It  could  have  been  built  by  no 
human  hands.  But  the  young  knight  did  not 
yield  to  dismay ;  for  liis  spirit  was  bold,  and 
his  faith  strong.  "  Who  will  venture,"  he  cried, 
"  to  climb  this  wall  with  me  ?  It  is  but  a  delu- 
sion of  the  Evil  One,  and  will  doubtless  van- 
ish, if  we  persevere,  like  true  believers  I" 

His  words  inspired  his  companions  with  con- 
fidence. Those  at  least  who  mistrusted  were 
ashamed  that  their  courage  should  be  called  in 
question ;  and  all  declared  themselves  ready  to 
follow  Egbert.  The  shout  that  answered  him, 
however,  was  uttered  by  many  in  faltering 
tones. 

The  knight  and  the  more  zealous  of  the 
confederates  sought  a  place  where  the  ascent 
seemed  practicable,  and  began  to  climb  the 
rocks.  They  were  half  way  up  the  precipice, 
when,  from  above,  sounded  hollow,  unearthly 
voices — "  Help  us,  Thor !  Save  us,  mighty 
Thor! 

At  the  same  moment  came  a  shower  of 
pieces  of  rock  upon  the  heads  of  the  adven- 
turers, hurling  them  to  the  ground,  where  many 
lay  stunned,  while  others  made  their  escape  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Egbert,  who  alone  re- 
mained unhurt,  heard  a  sound  of  mocking 
laughter,  repeated  by  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
before  it  died  away.  Bewildered  by  terror,  he 
clung  to  the  rock,  in  the  midst  of  the  fearful 
ascent ;  his  head  swam,  his  knees  trembled ; 


268 


OLD    TRADITIONS. 


lie  dared  not  look  up,  nor  downwards,  and  could 
with  ditBculty  keep  his  hold.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  voice  beneath,  saying,  "Keep  still, 
Master  Egbert ;  I  will  help  you." 

It  was  the  unknown  who  had  encountered 
him  on  the  night  of  tlie  storm.  He  climbed 
the  rocks,  encircled  Egbert  with  a  powerful 
arm,  and  lifting  him  with  apparent  ease,  de- 
scended to  the  ground  so  rapidly,  that  the 
young  man,  to  whom  such  a  feat  seemed  in- 
conceivable, looked  at  him  with  wonder  and 
fear. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Egbert  ?"  said  the 
stranger.  "  Will  you,  so  weak,  strive  against 
the  Mighty  ?  Behold  the  folly  of  your  enter- 
prise !  You  would  destroy  the  kingdom  of  the 
great  and  glorious  Thor ;  and  with  a  breath 
he  blasts  the  presumptuous  undertaking,  and 
scatters  as  the  dust  his  enemies,  who  have 
leagued  with  you  to  war  against  him.  Young 
man  !  give  up  your  vain  dreams,  and  return  to 
the  gods  of  your  fathers.  Save  yourself,  ere 
it  is  too  late  !  For  this  once  hath  the  mighty 
Thor  spared  you,  because  he  remembered  your 
service  and  offerings  of  old.  Beware  how  you 
tempt  his  wrath  again !  he  will  pardon  no 
more ;  and  your  new  gods — you  see  that  they 
cannot  aid  you  !" 

"  Silence,  miscreant !"  cried  Egbert,  in   an- 
ger. "I  laugh  to  scorn  the  anger  of  thy  gods  !" 
A  peal  of  unearthly  laughter  again  sounded 
from  above,  and  died  away  in  the  echoes. 

"  But  Thusnelda— what  of  her  ?"  said  the 
unknown. 

"  How — what  knowest  thou  of  Thusnelda  ?" 
answered  the  knight 

"  She  is  dying ;  her  heart  is  breaking  with 
Borrow  and  anxiety,  for  she  loves  you  well, 
and  cannot  hope  you  will  ever  meet  again,  if 
you  turn  not  from  your  apostacy." 

«  And  if "  faltered  Egbert. 

"If  you  will  return,  I  will  this  moment  con- 
duct Thusnelda  to  your  arms." 

The  young  knight  was  strjcken  to  the  heart 
at  thought  of  the  anguish  of  her  he  loved.  The 
voice  of  conscience  was  stifled  into  silence. 
A  torrent  of  wild  thoughts  rushed  through  his 
brain.  To  feign  a  return  to  the  worship  of  llie 
ancient  gods,  while  in  his  heart  he  remained 
steadfast  in  the  Christian  faith,  and  by  his  pre- 
tended recantation  to  procure  himself  the  prom- 
ised gift  of  Thusnelda,  seemed  to  him  the  best 
course.  He  would  thus,  he  thought,  secure 
both  his  temporal  and  eternal  welfare.  "  The 
all-benevolent   Saviour,"   he  said  to  himself, 


"  wills  not  the  suffering  of  any  of  his  servants, 
and  He  will  grant  me  pardon." 

He  signified  to  the  unknown  that  he  would 
profess  anew  his  allegiance  to  the  old  divini- 
ties. 

"  Then  sign  this !"  said  the  stranger,  pre- 
senting a  pen  and  leaf  of  parchment.  "  Sign, 
and  with  your  blood,  that  the  bond  may  be 
true." 

The  shudder  that  passed  through  Egbert's 
frame,  was  the  warning  of  his  guardian  angel, 
that  he  should  awake  from  his  delirium,  and 
strive  against  the  tempter.  But  all  the  facul- 
ties of  his  mind  were  in  confusion  ;  the  vision 
of  his  soul  was  darkened  ;  and  the  unknown, 
calm  and  resolute  to  urge  him  on,  stood  beside 
him.  They  spoke  together  a  few  moments  ; 
and  Egbert  took  the  parchment  and  the  pen. 
Again  the  convulsive  shudder  passed  tlirongh 
his  frame ;  and  thoughts  floated  vaguely 
through  his  mind  of  what  he  had  heard — that 
the  prince  of  darkness  often  misleads,  with 
deceit  and  cunning,  the  souls  of  men.  He 
could  not  read  the  characters  written  on  the 
parchment;  but  he  hoped  to  deceive  the  de- 
ceiver, and  therefore  signed  at  the  bottom 
another  name  than  his  own. 

The  unknown  hastily  snatched  the  parch- 
ment from  the  hands  of  Egbert,  and,  without 
examining  it,  concealed  it  in  his  bosom.  Then, 
taking  the  knight  by  the  hand,  he  led  him  up 
the  rocks.  They  were  at  the  summit  of  the 
wall  before  Egbert  was  fully  aware  of  what 
passed. 

"  Wait  here,"  said  the  stranger,  when  they 
stood  on  the  verge  of  the  precipice ;  "  wait 
here  ;  I  will  bring  Thusnelda  to  you.  But  stir 
not  from  this  spot,  even  when  you  see  me  com- 
ing with  her.  A  single  step  forward  will  cost 
you  your  life." 

He  disappeared.  An  hour  passed,  which 
seemed  an  age  to  the  expectation  of  Egbert. 
At  length  he  saw  the  unknown  approaching 
through  the  forest,  and  leading  a  female  figure, 
which  could  be  no  other  than  Thusnelda. 

The  loving  heart  of  the  young  knight  beat 
high,  and  he  exulted  at  thought  of  the  decep- 
tion which  had  gained  him  so  dear  a  boon. 
Scarce  could  he  restrain  the  impulse  to  rush 
towards  the  maiden.  His  foot  was  lifted  to 
advance ;  but  conscious  of  his  peril,  he  stamped 
on  the  ground  impatiently,  and  stood  as  if  root- 
ed to  the  rock,  stretching  forth  his  arms  to- 
wards the  fair  girl. 
Thusnelda  drew  near.     The  light  gleamed 


SOUL. 


269 


upon  her  marble  brow,  and  she  seemed  an 
angel  just  descended  from  above.  "My  Thus- 
nelda  I"  exclaimed  her  enraptured  lover. 

Still  nearer  she  came,  till  he  folded  her  in 
his  arms,  and  pressed  her  wildly  to  his  throb- 
bing breast. 

But  what  meant  the  icy  coldness  of  the 
form  he  clasped  ?  Why  answered  no  gen- 
tle voice  to  his  whispered  words  of  love  ? 
Why  did  not  the  soft  eyes  of  his  adored  one 
unclose  to  meet  his  earnest  gaze  ?  Unhappy 
Egbert !  he  held  a  corpse  in  his  arms !  The 
body  of  Thusnelda  was  indeed  there,  but  the 
spirit  had  fled  forever  ;  and  near  him  stood 
the  unknown,  in  his  own  fiendish  shape,  with 
eyes  gleaming  infernal  hate,  and  voice  that 
his.'jed  tauntingly  in  his  ear — "  Deceiver  and 
forsworn !" 

Like  the  lightning,  that  shatters  where  it 
penetrates,  the  terrible  truth  flashed  in  an  in- 
stant on  the  unfortunate  knight.  Paralyzed 
by  horror,  his  hold  relaxed ;  he  fell  backward, 
and  lay  a  crushed  and  lifeless  mass  at  the  foot 
of  the  rocky  wall. 

This  frightful  occurrence  soon  became  known 
through  all  that  region ;  and  such  were  the 
doubts  and  superstitious  dread  thereby  spread 


abroad,  that  the  progress  of  Christianity  was 
for  a  long  time  impeded.  Tlie  rocky  barrier,  so 
strongly  built  up,  concerning  which  there  was 
no  question  tchose  workmanship  it  was,  was 
from  that  time  called  "  Th«  Detil's  Wall." 

Some  remains  of  this  wall,  which  was  ap- 
parently  of  great  extent  and  height,  but  is  now 
levelled,  and  in  part  destroyed,  are  still  to  be 
seen,  according  to  rumor,  in  the  Lower  Hartz. 

MORAL. 

Instruction  was  formerly  inculcated  through 
traditions,  parables,  legends,  &c.  The  moral 
to  this  is  evident,  and  all-important  No  man 
can  start  on  a  religious  course  without  the 
devil  rearing  a  mighty  wall  of  obstacles  in  his 
way.  In  overcoming  this  he  must  be  impelled 
by  no  worldly  motive,  or  depend  on  no  earthly 
means.  The  moment  he  loses  his  faith  he 
loses  his  strength ;  and  when  he  shall  dare  to 
make  a  compromise  with  his  conscience  and 
the  enemy,  he  is  a  lost  man.  The  very  worldly 
object,  for  which  he  turned  hypocrite,  will  be- 
come a  corpse  in  his  arms ;  and  his  whole 
moral  nature  will  lie  crashed  and  rained  at  the 
feet  of  the  tempter. 


^dDiorOf. 


B7    J.     HAGEH. 


TEEMBLUfG  on  earth's  verge  I  stood, 

And  heard  his  awful  voice  of  power, 
While  foamed  and  raved  the  mighty  flood, 

As  if  impatient  to  devour ; 
And  I  beheld  a  form  of  life 

Unmoved  beside  the  billows  stand, 
Which,  calmly  gazing  on  the  strife, 

Thus  spake  in  accents  of  conmiand : 
"  Think  not  I  fear  thy  boisterous  wave. 
Proud  Ocean — thou  shall  be  my  slave  !" 

And  much  I  marvelled  when  I  saw. 
That  one  so  impotent  and  tVail 

Could,  by  some  strange  mysterious  law. 
O'er  such  a  nughty  strength  prevail ! 

The  feats  by  fabled  giants  done. 


Were  but  the  acts  of  childhood's  play. 
Compared  with  his,  this  daring  one, 

Who  taught  the  Ocean  to  obey ! 
And  make  him,  as  his  master,  know 
To  bear  his  burthens  to  and  fro. 

Loud  roared  the  Wind,  and  in  its  wrath 

Spread  desolation  far  and  near. 
And  all  the  beings  in  its  path 

Fell  prostrate  to  the  earth  with  fear! 
Save  this  strange  one !  who  smiling  said, 

"  Vainly,  dread  Tempest,  dost  thou  rave ; 
Thee  will  I  summon  to  my  aid — 

The  Wind  must  also  be  my  slave !" 
When  lo  !  he  did  the  Wind  subdue. 
And  made  of  him  a  servant  too. 


270 


TO    HESPERUS. 


I  saw  the  all-consuming  Fire 

Yield  in  obedience  to  his  will ! 
Back  from  his  dreaded  path  retire, 

A  menial  post  for  him  to  fill ; 
To  aid  him  in  bis  searchings  deep 

Into  creation's  secret  things, 
And  give  to  him  the  power  to  sweep 

O'er  earth  and  ocean  as  on  wings  ! 
Then  like  a  humble  friend  become, 
To  warm  his  hearth  and  light  his  home  ! 

The  Lightning  flashed  athwart  the  sky  ! 

The  adamantine  rocks  were  riven — 
Its  voice  of  thunder  loud  and  high, 

Echoed  till  trembled  earth  and  heaven. 
Yet  I  beheld  that  being  pale 

Tlie  Lightning  grasp  without  a  fear ! 
And  o'er  its  fearful  strength  prevail. 

To  bear  his  mandates  far  and  near, 
I^ike  post-boy  travelling  day  and  night. 
Yet  swift  as  on  the  wings  of  light. 

As  round  us  in  the  vast  expanse. 
Creation's  glories  were  unfurled, 

I  saw  that  being,  at  a  glance. 
Measure,  and  weigh,  each  sun  and  world ! 

I  could  no  longer  hold,  but  cried, 


"  Who  may  this  wondrous  creature  be  ? 
Unlike  all  earth-born  things  beside. 

He  grasps  almost  infinity, 
And  doth  the  elements  control !" 
A  voice  replied  :  "  The  human  Soul." 

Yet  I  beheld  that  very  Soul 

Become  of  meanest  things  the  slave  ! 
Subject  to  Passion's  fierce  control. 

Its  powers  laid  prostrate  in  the  grave  ; 
Or  living  but  itself  to  curse, 

With  ghastly  fears  and  tortures  fell ; 
And  more  than  even  this,  and  worse — 

A  weight  to  drag  it  down  to  hell ! 
Thus  did  it  sink  despised  by  all, 
Spurned  by  the  very  things  that  crawl ! 

And  is  it  always  thus  to  be  ? 

Shall  man  still  play  the  suicide  ? 
He  who,  when  in  his  purity. 

Walked  with  his  Maker  side  by  side  ? 
No  !  thanks  to  the  redeeming  power 

Of  the  Creator's  boundless  grace, 
Not  long  shall  be  delayed  the  hour. 

Which  erring  man  again  shall  place 
Once  more  upon  the  smiling  eartli, 
As  pure  as  at  Creation's  birth. 


^(B  Hi^sjp^mw^ 


Thou  wandering  star ! 
Tell  us  what  lies  beyond  thine  airy  home  ? 
Is  there  a  heaven  in  the  boundless  dome 

And  worlds  afar  ? 

Canst  thou  behold 
The  battlements  of  pearl,  the  crystal  river ; 
And  hear  the  song  enchanting  roll  forever 
From  harps  of  gold  ? 

Art  thou  a  heaven, 
Beaming  transcendent  in  a  lonely  star ; 
And  rolling  ever  thy  triumphal  car 

Through  holiest  even  ? 


Or  do  they  throng 
Pure  and  unransomed  oft  a  countless  host ; 
And  touch  the  lyre,  and  sing  of  us  long  lost— 

A  sweet  strange  song  ? 

Or  art  thou  cold 
And  pulseless — beats  no  heart 
In  starry  sympathy  with  those  apart 

Who  thee  behold  ? 

No  voice  below — 
It  is  enough,  when,  like  a  parting  scroll 
The  bending  heavens  together  roll, 

That  we  shall  know. 


POOR  AND  RICH. 


271 


ip®®m  AH®  mssisr. 


PART   I. — THE    GARRET. 

The  incidents  I  am  about  to  relate  came 
under  my  observation  dunng  my  pupilage,  as 
a  student  of  medicine,  and  while  I  was  at- 
tending my  final  course  of  lectures,  in  the  old 
Medical  College  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
located,  at  that  time,  in  Barclay  street.  They 
are,  therefore,  only  reminiscences  of  that  period 
of  my  life ;  but  as  they  serve  to  develop  some 
peculiar  traits  of  life  and  character,  they  may 
fitly  be  detailed  as  portions  of  my  professional 
experience.  Yet,  being  dependent  upon  my 
memory  for  the  details,  I  will  be  pardoned  if  I 
deviate  a  little  from  that  trueness  to  life  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  maintain  throughout  the 
characters  I  have  been  portraying  in  my  se- 
ries, albeit  some  of  them  may  wear  much  of  the 
air  of  romance,  rather  than  reality.  Still,  I 
shall  endeavor  to  remain  as  true  as  possible  to 
memory,  in  relating  a  short  history  of  degraded 
poverty  and  wealth — the  mysterious  linking  to- 
gether of  the  two — the  consequences  of  the 
deep  and  debasing  love  of  money,  which,  the 
same  in  almost  all  hearts,  the  soul-absorbing 
idolatry  of  the  present  day,  leads  one  to  lavish 
enormous  wealth  in  outward  pomp  and  show, 
and  another  to  hoard  up  the  slow  and  care-ac- 
cumulated gains  of  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
while  he  starves  upon  a  crust,  or  the  bone  he 
has  drawn  from  the  filth  of  a  gutter,  that  every 
night  he  may  shut  to  and  bolt  and  bar  his  soli- 
tary and  inhospitable  door,  to  open  his  chest 
and  bring  out  and  worship  his  gilded  Mam- 
mon. Miserable  idolatry  !  whether  of  the  ex- 
ternal pomp  or  of  the  heart's  internal  devotion. 

I  boarded  in strcet,  in  the  family  of 

Mrs.  A n,  a  lady  who  was  a  leading  spirit  in 

an  association  of  many  of  her  own  warm-hearted 
se.x,  for  the  relief  of  the  suffering  poor  in  a  cer- 
tain district  of  the  city  ;  and  by  this  means  I 
had  been  placed  in  a  very  fortunate  position 


for  applying  the  pnnciples  to  practice  wnich  I 
was  daily  listening  to  in  the  medical  school, 
and  at  the  same  time  bring  no  small  amount  of 
relief  to  a  class  of  persons  who  are  often  left 
to  suffer  in  sickness,  from  the  want  of  medical 
aid.  In  fact,  I  became  a  sort  of  physician  to 
this  society,  and  spent  much  of  my  leisure 
time  in  attending  upon  the  sick  who  came  un- 
der their  care.  In  this  way,  in  the  course  of 
the  winter,  my  list  of  patients  swelled  to  a  con- 
siderable size,  unprofitable,  it  is  true,  pecunia- 
rily, but  valuable  in  the  way  of  my  studies, 
and  essentially  important  in  the  training  which 
my  heart  and  sympathies  thus  underwent. 
And  should  any  of  my  readers  belong  to  the 
class  of  individuals  to  which  I  then  belonged, 
I  mean  students  of  medicme,  I  would  recom- 
mend them  to  avail  themselves  of  similar  facili- 
ties whenever  they  offer.  They  will  aid  them 
as  they  did  me  ;  and  when,  in  after  life,  they 
rise  in  their  profession,  and  find  themselves 
called  to  the  bedside  of  the  rich  and  proud,  they 
will  often  find  their  memory  turning  back  to 
these  early  scenes,  to  remind  them,  in  their  pros- 
perity, that  "  The  poor  ye  have  always  with 
you  ;"  and  they  may  thus  be  restrained  from 
neglecting  those  whom  God  loves,  when  they 
are  in  suffering. 

On  my  return  home,  one  evening,  I  found 
two  new  ones  added  to  my  list.  They  lived  at 
a  considerable  distance,  more  than  half  a  mile, 
from  my  boarding  house. 

"  There  does  not  appear  to  be  anything  very 

urgent  in  either  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  A n, 

"  and  you  may  as  well  call  as  you  go  down 
town  in  the  morning." 

"  I  shall  be  passing  near  tliere  to-night,"  I 
replied,  "  and  as  it  will  not  be  much  out  of  my 
way,  I  will  drop  in  and  see  them." 

A  few  steps  brought  me  to  Broadway,  then  I 

passed  down  street,  all  lined  with  tlie 

splendid  and  costly  mansions  of  the  rich,  from 


272 


POOR  AND  RICH. 


which,  as  I  passed,  came  out  the  sounds  of 
mirth  and  music,  and  the  bright  glare  of  bril- 
liant lights.  I  turned  a  corner,  and  all  was 
changed.  Suddenly  I  stood  among  the  miser- 
able dwellings  of  the  poor.  Here  and  there, 
at  a  distant  corner,  shone  out  the  dim  light  of 
a  half-burning  lamp,  scarcely  piercing  a  few 
paces  through  the  thick  darkness  of  the  narrow 
and  filthy  street.  Now  and  then,  as  I  hurried 
on,  I  could  hear  the  sounds  of  laughter,  min- 
gled with  oaths  and  blasphemy,  from  some  of 
the  haunts  of  low  dissipation  with  which  that 
part  of  the  city  was  then  full.  At  length  I 
stood  in  front  of  the  dwelling  I  was  seeking. 
It  stood  in  the  darkest  and  most  solitary  part 
of  the  street,  and  only  from  a  window  in  what 
seemed  to  be  the  very  top  of  the  house  could  be 
seen  any  light.     This  came,  probably,  from  the 

room  of  one  of  my  new  patients.    Mrs,  A n 

had  informed  me  that  one,  an  old  man,  lived  in 
the  garret,  and  the  other  in  the  basement,  or 
more  properly  the  cellar.  I  must  confess  to  some 
little,  perhaps  foolish,  fear,  as  I  carefully  picked 
my  way  up  stairs,  through  the  dense  darkness 
of  the  narrow  passage,  stumbling  from  step  to 
step,  and  calculating  the  turnings  by  which  I 
was  to  reach  the  chamber  of  the  sick  man. 
But  after  climbing  three  flights  of  stairs,  I  dis- 
covered a  light  issuing  from  a  chink  in  the 
door,  at  which  I  knocked  for  admittance.  It 
was  opened  by  a  woman.  I  was  mistaken. 
My  patient  lived  still  higher  up,  and  the  woman 
lighted  me  up  the  rude  steps  to  his  room. 

It  comprised  the  whole  upper  loft  of  the 
house,  and  was  a  miserable  tenement  even  for 
a  beast.  In  many  places  the  bricks  had  fallen 
out,  and  the  old  decayed  roof  admitted  almost 
unhindered  the  cold  blasts  from  without.  There 
was  no  place  for  fire,  and  the  wretched  occu- 
pant hved  there  without  ever  feeling  its  genial 
warmth.  I  fomid  him  lying  upon  what  could 
only  be  called  a  pile  of  rags,  for  bed  it  was 
not,  yet  it  was  the  only  furniture  of  the  room, 
except  a  large  oaken  chest,  which  sat  close 
by  its  side,  and  within  reach  of  his  hand. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  exclaimed  a  weak,  squeak- 
ing voice,  as  I  opened  the  door,  and  the  faint 
light  of  the  candle  in  the  woman'? hand  pierced 
into  the  gloomy  darkness  of  the  dismal  apart- 
ment. I  took  the  light,  and  approached  him. 
With  what  seemed  supernatural  strength  in 
the  miserable  skeleton  frame,  he  suddenly  sat 
upright,  and  clutching  in  his  bony  fingers  a 
•tout  staff  that  leaned  against  the  chest,  he 
raiaed  it,  exclaiming : 


"Keep  oflf!  I  know  you.  You  have  come 
to  rob  me,  but  I  will  resist  to  the  last.  Stand 
off,  I  say ;  don't  come  any  nearer,  or  I'll  cry 
murder,  and  alarm  the  house.  Murder  ! — mur- 
der!— watch! — watch!— help!"  and  he  fell 
back,  exhausted.  • 

The  voice,  though  full  of  agony  and  fear, 
scarcely  found  an  echo  in  the  narrow  walls 
of  the  garret,  so  weak  was  it,  and  faint,  as  if 
coming  from  the  lips  of  a  dying  man. 

'•  He's  been  so  ever  since  he  has  been  sick," 
said  the  woman,  "  and  so  we  have  thought  lie 
was  crazy,  and  have  been  afraid  to  come  near 
him.  Before,  he  klways  kept  his  door  locked, 
and  would  let  nobody  come  in." 

"  And  how  has  he  lived  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Like  all  the  rest  of  us  in  the  house,"  she 
replied — "  by  begging,  or  some  less  honest 
means.  But  he  must  have  seen  better  times, 
for  he  raves  all  the  time  about  being  robbed, 
as  if  he  had  anything  worth  the  taking  now. 
But  he's  crazy,  poor  man,  and  I  suppose  is 
thinking  about  the  time  when  he  was  better 
off." 

I  dispatched  the  woman  to  procure  another 
candle,  and  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  tried  to 
assure  him  that  I  had  come  to  assist  him.  But 
it  was  some  time  before  I  could  succeed.  He 
seemed  still  under  the  impression  that  I  had 
come  to  rob  him,  and  while  he  gasped  for  breath 
he  covild  be  heard  murmuring : 

"  You  must  take  my  life  before  you  get  it.'" 

"  Fool !"  I  at  length  said,  "  of  what  could  I 
rob  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  poor,  very  poor. 
But  what  I  have  got  I  love  as  well  as  others. 
Yes,  I  am  very  poor — poor — poor." 

When  the  woman  returned  with  the  light,  I 
dismissed  her,  and  proceeded  to  examine  my 
patient.  I  could  detect  no  signs  of  active  dis- 
ease, but  he  seemed  very  old  and  emaciated, 
and  I  thought  that  this  was  probably  all  lliat 
ailed  him.  For  this,  of  course,  tlicre  was  no 
cure.  It  is  the  lot  of  tliose  who  live  to  grow 
old,  to  fade  and  wither,  and  waste  away,  and 
decay.  Life  often  in  them  goes  gradually  out, 
like  a  lamp  expiring  for  want  of  oil,  and  yet 
they  are  unconscious  of  the  approach  of  death. 
With  slow  and  silent  pace  year  after  year 
glides  on,  each  one  adding  its  furrows  to  the 
cheek,  and  new  blossoms  to  the  almond  tree, 
and  bowing  lower  the  decrepit  form  with  the 
burden  of  weary  age  ;  and  yet  new  years  totter 
on,  to  swell  the  century  full,  before  the  old  and 
worn-out  frame  refuses  to  perform,  in  part,  at 


POOR  AND  RICH. 


273 


least,  its  office  ;  and  then,  all  at  once,  the  flame 
begins  to  flicker,  trembles  in  the  socket,  flashes 
brightly  up,  and — goes  out.  Such  men  have 
we  all  seen — such  seemed  the  miserable  being 
before  me.  Yet,  to  all  the  wasting  and  despoil- 
ing influences  of  age,  I  was  afterwards  com- 
pelled to  add  another  cause  of  his  wretchedness. 
I  did  not  know  it  till  he  was  actually  dying.  He 
was  starving.  In  the  midst  of  a  city  abounding 
with  wealth  and  plenty,  he  was  dying  of  hun- 
ger. And  this  of  his  own  choice.  It  was  not 
because  he  could  not  obtain  food.  He  was  too 
stingy  and  penurious  to  eat  sufficient  to  sup- 
port life.  His  history  I  learned  from  his 
brother,  a  hard-working  mechanic,  who  found 
out  that  he  was  dying,  and  came  to  see  him  in 
his  last  hours. 

From  his  very  boyhood  he  had  been  noted 
for  his  penuriousness,  and  as  he  grew  up  to 
manhood,  the  passion,  if  it  may  be  called  so, 
increased  upon  him.  He  labored  hard,  for  he 
worked  for  money.  The  all-absorbing  love  of 
gold  had  full  possession  of  his  soul.  As  he  gath- 
ered it  in,  little  by  little,  from  the  wages  of  his 
daily  toil,  he  hoarded  it  up,  and  lived  upon  the 
poorest  fare.  Appetite  had  no  power  over  him. 
He  would  have  sold  the  very  food  he  was  put- 
ting to  his  lips,  for  money.  As  his  little  store 
increased,  the  mania  became  stronger.  He  did 
not  invest  it  in  any  way  that  would  make  itself 
increase.  He  dared  not  do  this,  from  fear  of 
losing  it ;  and,  besides,  he  wanted  it  in  his  own 
possession,  where  he  could  see  it,  and  count  it 
over,  and  feast  his  eyes  and  his  craven  soul 
upon  the  sight.  It  was  his  god ;  he  loved  it 
for  itself.  He  did  not  use  it — he  gloried  only 
in  being  its  possessor. 

But  the  daily  wages  of  his  labor  now  began 
to  add  too  slowly  to  the  paltry  heap.  He  was 
not  satisfied  with  the  drop-by-drop  accumula- 
tion. He  forsook  his  work,  and  resorted  to 
the  miserable  life  of  a  street  beggar.  From 
this  time  he  was  only  known  from  his  occupa- 
tion. No  one  knew  what  was  his  success. 
His  lodgings  had  been,  for  years,  in  the 
wretched  garret  in  which  he  now  lay  dying. 
When  he  left  it,  early  every  morning,  he  care- 
fully locked  his  door,  and  was  not  seen  there 
again  till  evening.  He  then  returned,  and 
closing  his  door,  bolted  and  barred  it  against  all 
intruders.  None  were  admitted.  His  life  was 
an  utter  solitude ;  he  made  no  friends  among 
the  other  tenants  of  the  same  house.  They 
all  supposed  him  to  be  one  of  their  own  kind, 
and  to  live  as  they  lived.     Had  it  been  sus- 


pected that  he  had  money,  no  matter  how  little, 
there  would  have  been  no  security  for  him.  He 
therefore  kept  his  own  counsel,  and  lived  in 
this  dismal  room,  in  the  top  of  a  house  filled 
with  thieves,  and  the  only  furniture  he  pos- 
sessed was  that  I  have  mentioned  above. 

Old  age  crept  upon  him  prematurely,  for 
he  was  now  only  sixty.  But  privation,  and  ex- 
posure, and  cankering  care,  took  the  place  of 
years,  and  ploughed  deeper  furrows  in  his  face. 
Still  he  pursued  his  calling,  and  day  by  day 
dragged  his  tottering  footsteps  from  door  to 
door.  It  was  probably  the  most  profitable  pe- 
riod of  his  life.  Men  pitied  the  miserable  old 
man,  whose  feeble  steps  seemed  trembling 
on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  and  alms  grew 
plenty. 

But  one  day  he  did  not  appear.  His  door  was 
not  opened  in  the  morning,  and  his  footstep  was 
not  heard  overhead  by  the  woman  who  lived 
under  him.  She  thought  strange  of  it,  for  she 
missed  his  accustomed  presence,  as  he  passed 
down  from  his  room.  About  noon,  fearing  that 
he  might  have  died  alone,  she  knocked  at  his 
door,  and  after  some  little  delay  she  heard  him 
making  an  effort  to  open  it  At  length  he  suc- 
ceeded, and  as  she  looked  in  she  discovered 
that  he  had  crawled  to  the  door,  for  his  feeble 
limbs  had  refused  to  bear  him.  He  begged  her 
to  bring  him  some  water,  and  dragging  himself 
back  to  his  bed,  he  received  it,  and  soaked  in  it 
a  dry  crust,  which  he  ate  by  morsels.  From 
this  time  his  door  was  never  fastened,  for  he 
had  not  the  power  to  do  it.  In  this  condition 
he  had  been  found  by  the  charitable  ladies  who 
had  sent  me  to  see  him.  Such  was  the  history 
of  the  wretched  man,  up  to  that  time. 

Thenceforth,  the  remainder  of  his  life  wore 
out  in  unceasing  vigilance  and  care.  It  will 
be  understood,  however,  that  the  facts  narrated 
above  never  came  to  light  till  just  before  his 
death,  when  his  brother  discovered  his  condi- 
tion, and  came  to  see  him.  All  who  saw  him 
believed  him  to  be  deranged,  and  that  he  fan- 
cied himself  rich,  and  that  all  who  approached 
him  came  to  rob  him.  I  supposed  it  to  be  a 
sort  of  hallucination,  affecting  the  enfeebled 
mind  of  an  old  man  who  had  lived  a  life  of  the 
deepest  poverty,  and  now,  in  his  last  days,  was 
revelling  in  dreams  of  fancied  riches,  which  he 
clung  to  as  a  child  hugs  the  toys  another  seeks 
to  deprive  him  of.  There  was  one  thing,  how- 
ever, which  often  excited  my  surprise.  The  only 
seat  in  the  room  was  the  old  chest,  but  if  any 
one  attempted  to  sit  down  on  it,  he  drove  them 


274 


POOR  AND  RICH. 


furiously  away.    Did  it  contain  stolen  goods  ? 
and  was  he  afraid  of  discovery  ? 

His  death,  which  occurred  in  a  few  days. 
answered  the  question.  Sceeped  in  poverty  as 
the  man  had  seemed,  he  was  actually  enor- 
mously rich.  The  old  chest  contained  large 
sums  of  money,  in  gold  and  silver— the  base 
idol  of  the  departed  possessor.  By  his  death 
it  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  brother,  an  industri- 
ous and  worthy  man,  who  was  thus  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  raised  from  his  humble  posi- 
tion to  affluence. 

PART  II. — THE   CELLAR. 

I  have  related  the  above  by  itself,  though  it 
occurred  in  connection  with  the  following.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  it  was  night  when  I 
climbed  into  the  garret.  Thence  I  descended, 
and  sought  admission  into  the  cellar  ;  but  fail- 
ing in  my  efforts,  I  was  obliged  to  defer  my 
visit  there  to  the  morning. 

Descending  a  steep  flight  of  uneven  steps 
from  the  pavement,  I  pushed  open  the  door 
without  knocking,  and  drew  back  with  a  shud- 
der. The  damp  and  foul  air  of  the  apartment 
sent  a  chill  over  me,  that  made  me  hesitate  a 
moment  before  I  entered.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  human  beings  lived  in  this  hole  in  the 
ground,  and  in  such  a  city  as  this  ?  I  had  seen 
notliing  before  to  compare  with  it :  the  garret 
above  was  a  palace  to  it.  No  wonder  I  shud- 
dered. I  stepped  in.  Hovering  over  a  few  em- 
bers on  the  hearth,  sat  a  little  girl,  of  perhaps 
ten  years,  and  clothed  in  rags.  In  one  corner, 
upon  a  bed,  which  I  afterwards  learned  had 
been,  the  day  before,  made  somewhat  comfort- 
able by  the  ladies  mentioned  above,  lay  another 
girl,  two  or  three  years  younger.  Supposing 
her  to  be  the  sick  one  to  whom  I  had  been 
sent,  I  approached  her,  and  laid  my  hand  on 
her  forehead.  Her  skin  was  very  hot  and  dry. 
Upon  examination  I  found  that  she  was  in  a 
high  fever,  and  perfectly  unconscious.  Di- 
rectly a  female  entered,  in  all  respects  the  very 
one  in  appearance  to  be  the  tenant  of  such  a 
place.  But  when  she  discovered  that  I  had 
come  to  see  her  sick  child,  she  evinced  a  deep 
feeling  of  gratitude,  though  she  had  not 
thought  the  girl  was  dangerously  sick.  But 
when  I  assured  her  that  her  case  was  a  critical 
one,  and  already  one  of  great  severity,  the 
whole  woman  was  changed.  I  could  not  ac- 
count for  it  at  the  time,  nor  for  a  considerable 
period  afterwards.  For  a  moment  she  seemed 
M  if  struck  dumb  by  the  information.    Then, 


rushing  wildly  to  the  bed,  she  clasped  the  child 
in  her  arms  and  wailed  bitterly. 

"My  poor — poor  little  Ellen — sweet  bird! 
Oh  !  do  not  tell  me  she  will  die — my  darling 
child — no — no — no.  It  will  break  my  heart. 
Is  it  for  this  I  have  suffered,  and  made  you  suf- 
fer so  much — to  lose  you  now — to  have  you 
die  here  in  this  miserable  place !  It  cannot 
be — and  vet,  O  God  !  it  is  but  just.  Poor  fool 
that  I  am  i  And  I  have  killed  you,  my  sweet 
child — my  own  little  Ellen !" 

And  in  this  strain  she  continued  to  talk  for 
some  time.  The  manner  and  tlie  words  struck 
me  as  belonging  to  one  of  too  refined  a  heart  to 
be  living  in  such  a  place  ;  and  throughout  the 
whole  course  of  the  child's  sickness,  the  same 
was  to  be  observed.  I  say  I  could  not  account 
for  it  then.  I  knew  that  many  are  cast  down 
from  affluence  and  high  life  into  abject  pover- 
ty, but  if  they  retain  their  moral  and  human 
feelings,  they  never  sink  so  low  as  the  outward 
circumstances  of  this  woman  seemed  to  indi- 
cate her  to  be.  Their  better  natures  bear  them 
up,  and  they  will  contrive,  by  some  means,  to 
live  in  at  least  a  decent  manner.  But  this 
woman,  living  in  all  the  destitution  and  ffllli  of 
the  most  degraded  poverty,  still,  under  the 
influence  of  her  warm  maternal  heart,  when 
assured  that  her  child  was  like  to  die,  poured 
forth  her  feelings  in  words  that  would  seem  to 
belong  to  one  who  had  lived  in  far  different 
circumstances. 

I  continued  to  attend  the  sick  child,  from 
day  to  day,  and  saw,  each  time  I  called,  an  ap- 
parent improvement  in  the  condition  of  the 
place.  The  mother  was  anxious  that  her  little 
Ellen  should  be  removed  to  more  comforta- 
ble quarters,  but  it  was  impossible  in  her  then 
condition.  She  therefore  continued,  by  some 
means,  to  make  her  under-ground  apartment 
take  on  an  air  of  more  comfort  than  I  at  first 
believed  it  could.  A  cheerful  fire  was  now  al- 
ways burning  on  the  hearth.  The  little  com- 
forts of  a  sick  room  were  found  there,  and  the 
mother  was  the  steady  and  faithful  and  ever- 
watchful  nurse  of  the  sick  girl.  I  was, 
therefore,  less  surprised  tlian  I  should  other- 
wise have  been,  to  find  her  soon  begin  to  im- 
prove, and  in  due  time  she  was  restored,  and  I 
lost  sight  of  them.  But  the  day  after  I  ceased 
from  attending  the  child,  I  received  a  note,  in 
a  delicate  female  hand-writing,  as  follows  : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  owe  you  the  life  of  my  darling 
Ellen.    For  this  my  heart  will  be  ever  grateful 


POOR  AND  RICH. 


275 


to  you.  I  have  been  a  fool — nay,  more — I  have 
been  cruelly  wicked.  If  we  ever  meet  again,  it 
will  not  be  as  we  have  met.  The  inclosed  is 
but  a  poor  tribute,  and  is  no  way  commensurate 
with  my  heart's  thanks." 

The  inclosure  was  ten  dollars.  I  could  hard- 
ly believe  the  evidence  of  my  eyes,  and  yet 
there  could  be  no  mistaking  the  source  from 
which  it  had  come.  It  was  the  mother  of  the 
little  sick  girl.  I  puzzled  my  brain  not  a  little 
to  reconcile  it  with  all  I  had  seen  in  that  mis- 
erable cellar,  where  there  was  nothing  but  the 
wretched  trappings  of  the  most  abject  poverty. 
I  pocketed  my  first  fee,  and  let  the  matter  drop. 
The  winter  passed  by.  The  lecture  term 
closed,  and  with  my  diploma  in  my  pocket,  I 

went  to  the  little  village  of  T n,  to  begin 

my  professional  career.  I  had  been  there  but 
a  few  days,  when,  one  evening,  just  before 
sunset,  while  walking  a  short  distance  out  of 
the  village,  as  I  passed  a  neat  little  cottage,  I 
heard  a  child,  who  was  playing  by  the  door,  ex- 
claim : 

"  Look,  Anne,  there's  Doctor  P." 

I  knew  the  voice,  and  opening  the  gate,  in  a 
moment  I  had  little  Ellen  in  my  arms.  In  the 
house  I  found  her  mother.  No  longer  the  mis- 
erably poor  beggar  in  the  filthy  cellar,  she  was 
now  the  owner  and  the  inhabitant  of  this  cot- 
tage, living  in  comfort  and  elegance.  She  told 
me  her  story.  Pardon  me,  reader,  if  I  seem  to 
tell  an  improbability.  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved it  if  I  had  not  received  it  from  her 
own  lips,  and  known  her  in  both  phases  of  her 
life. 

Brought  up  in  afl3uence — the  child  of  proud 
and  wealthy  parents — married,  before  she  at- 
tained to  womanhood,  to  a  man  of  her  own  rank 
in  life,  she  was  ill  prepared,  in  a  few  years, 
when  a  fatal  epidemic  took  them  all  away,  to  find 
herself  left  poor,  and  with  two  children  to  share 
her  hard  lot.  When  her  grief  had  become  in 
a  measure  allayed,  she  cast  about  to  contrive 
by  what  means  she  could  live.     A  life  of  pov- 


erty she  could  not  think  of.  What  should  she 
do  ?  She  had  heard  of  the  large  sums  of 
money  which  the  beggars  in  the  streets  of  New 
York  are  said  often  to  amass,  and  loathsome  as 
was  the  thought,  she  resolved  to  make  trial  of 
its  truth.  If  she  should  succeed,  she  might  di- 
vide her  time  between  poverty  and  comfortable 
competence.  She  made  the  attempt.  Changing 
her  own  and  her  children's  garb,  for  the  rags 
becoming  her  new  profession,  she  rented  the 
basement  in  which  I  first  saw  her,  and  com- 
menced business.  At  first  it  was  a  hard  life  ; 
but  the  gains  which  she  found  rewarding  her, 
drawn  from  those  who  felt  pity  more  for  the 
suffering  children  than  the  mother,  gradually 
reconciled  her  to  the  lot.  Her  success  more 
than  fulfilled  her  best  expectations.  In  one 
winter  she  amassed  enough  to  enable  her  to 
retire,  the  following  summer,  into  the  country, 
and  pass  her  time  at  a  genteel  house,  as  a 
fashionable  widow.  With  the  return  of  cod 
weather  she  returned  to  the  city,  and  to  her 
dark  abode.  But  now  a  new  plan  was  con- 
ceived in  her  mind.  It  was  to  devote  herself 
to  her  new  business  steadily,  till  she  had  accu- 
mulated enough  to  retire,  and  live  economically, 
but  genteelly,  in  the  country.  Through  what 
sufferings  she  went,  and  to  what  hardships  she 
exposed  her  tender  children,  it  is  impossible  to 
relate.  Gradually  she  became  hardened  to  her 
new  life,  and  callous  to  the  feehngs  of  her  chil- 
dren ;  and  the  thirst  for  gain,  only  for  itself, 
began  to  take  deep  root  in  her  mind.  She  no 
longer  looked  forward  to  the  end  she  had  at 
first  proposed.  Just  at  this  time  the  little  Ellen 
was  taken  sick.  The  discovery  of  her  danger, 
and  the  consciousness  that  she  had  provoked 
it,  produced  a  powerful  revulsion  in  her  mind, 
and  revived  all  her  refined  love  for  her  child. 
Upon  her  recovery  she  retired  to  this  village, 
and,  with  the  proceeds  of  her  humble  and  mean 
occupation,  purchased  a  cottage,  and  was  Uving 
in  comfortable  ease.  And  two  happier,  or 
more  beautiful  children  I  never  saw,  than  were 
Anne  and  Ellen. 


276 


A    PAPER    ON    CORALS. 


A  IPAIPISIE  ©H  ©(DIAILS. 


I  saw  the  living  pile  ascend. 
The  mausoleum  of  its  architects, 
Still  dying  upwards  as  their  labors  closed — 
Slime  the  material,  but  the  slime  was  turned 
To  adamant,  by  their  petrific  touch. 
Frail  were  their  frames,  ephemeral  their  lives. 
Their  masonry  imperishable.    All 
Life's  needful  functions,  food,  exertion,  rest. 
By  nice  economy  of  Providence, 
Were  overruled  to  carry  on  the  process 
Which  out  of  water  brought  forth  solid  rock. 
Atom  by  atom  thus  the  burthen  grew. 
Even  like  an  infant  in  the  womb,  till  Time 
Delivered  Ocean  of  that  monstrous  birth — 
A  Coral  Island,  stretching  east  and  west. 


Thi  observations  made  on  corals  as  seen  in 
the  beds  where  they  grow,  at  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  and  recorded  on  the  spot,  as  in  previous 
correspondence,  have  induced  me  to  compare 
the  results  thus  obtained  with  what  has  been 
written  on  this  subject  by  certain  late  authors. 

To  begin  with  Sir  David  Brewster.  In  a 
recent  article,  copied  into  the  Eclectic  from  the 
North  British  Review,  he  says : — "  Our  readers, 
no  doubt,  are  aware  that  the  coral  rocks,  which 
form  islands  and  reefs  hundreds  of  miles  in  ex- 
tent, are  built  by  small  animals,  called  polypus, 
that  secrete,  from  the  lower  portion  of  their 
body,  a  large  quantity  of  carbonate  of  lime ; 
which,  when  diffused  around  the  body,  and  de- 
posited between  the  folds  of  its  abdominal 
coats,  constitute  a  cell,  or  polypidom,  or  poly- 
pary,  into  the  hollow  of  which  the  animal  can 
retire.  The  solid  thus  formed  is  called  a  coral, 
which  represents  exactly  the  animal  itself. 
These  stony  cells  are  sometimes  single  and 
cupped  ;  sometimes  ramifying,  like  a  tree,  and 
Bometimes  grouped,  like  a  cauliflower,  or  imi- 
tating the  human  brain.  ♦  *  *  The  calcareous 
cells  which  they  build,  remain  fixed  to  the  rock 
in  which  they  began  their  labors  afler  the  ani- 
mals themselves  are  dead.  A  new  set  of 
workmen  take  their  places,  and  add  another 
itory  to  the  rising  edifice.  The  same  process 
goes  on  from  generation  to  generation,  until 
the  wall  reaches  the  surface  of  the  ocean, 
where  it  necessarily  terminates.      ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦ 

**  These  industrious  laborers  act  as  scaven- 
gera  of  the  lowest  class ;  perpetually  employed 


in  cleansing  the  waters  of  the  sea  from  impuri- 
ties, which  escape  even  the  smallest  Crustacea  ; 
in  the  same  manner  as  the  insect  tribes,  in 
their  various  stages,  are  destined  to  find  their 
food  by  devouring  impurities  caused  by  dead 
animals  and  vegetable  matter  in  the  land.  *  *  * 

"  Were  we  to  unite  into  one  mass  the  im- 
mense coral  reefs,  three  hundred  miles  long, 
and  the  numberless  coral  islands,  some  of  which 
are  forty  and  fifty  miles  in  diameter ;  and  if  we 
add  to  this  all  the  coralline  limestone,  and  the 
other  formations,  whether  calcareous  or  silicious, 
that  are  the  works  of  insect  labor,  we  should 
have  an  accumulation  of  solid  matter  which 
would  compose  a  planet  or  a  satellite — at 
least  one  of  the  smaller  planets,  between  Mars 
and  Jupiter.  And  if  such  a  planet  could  be  so 
constructed,  may  we  not  conceive,  tliat  the 
solid  materials  of  a  whole  system  of  worlds 
might  have  been  formed  by  the  tiny,  but  long- 
continued  labors  of  beings  that  are  invisi- 
ble !"  &c. 

Now  here  is  a  mixture  of  fancy  and  fact, 
which  a  single  personal  inspection  of  a  coral 
reef  by  the  learned  theorizer,  would  have  very 
considerably  modified.  He  would  become  sat- 
isfied, I  think,  that  the  great  reef  itself,  as  it 
appears  at  the  Sandwich  Islands,  so  far  from 
being  the  work  of  insect  labor  alone,  is  the 
basis  which  nature  herself  lays,  (in  the  way  be- 
fore referred  to,  by  the  precipitation  of  carbon- 
ate of  lime,  through  electrical  agency,  from 
8ca-water,)  for  the  coral  insect  to  build  upon, 
and  garnish  with  his  beautiful  structures,  and 


A    PAPER    ON     CORALS. 


277 


from  time  to  time  add  to,  it  is  true,  by  their 
decay,  but  never  rear  alone  from  the  depths  of 
the  sea.  To  theorize  in  the  study  is  one  thing ; 
carefully  to  examine  and  compare  the  pro- 
cesses of  niture  in  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 
is  quite  another ;  which,  if  more  critically  and 
oftener  done,  would  preclude,  or  quite  annihi- 
late, and  always  modify,  the  learned  labors  of 
many  a  philosopher. 

Coral  was  generally  deemed  a  vegetable 
substance  until  the  year  1720,  when  M.  de 
Peyronnel,  of  Marseilles,  commenced,  and  con- 
tinued for  thirty  years,  a  series  of  observations, 
by  which  he  ascertained  the  coral  to  be  the 
production  of  a  living  animal  of  the  polypi 
tri  be.  The  general  name  of  zoophytes,  or  plant- 
animals,  has  since  been  applied  to  these  marine 
insect?,  though  sometimes  called  lithophytes,  or 
stone  plants.  They  occur  most  frequently  in 
the  tropical  seas,  and  decrease  in  number  and 
variety  as  we  approach  the  poles. 

"  The  various  species  of  these  animals," 
says  Dr.  Milner,  Gallery  of  Nature,  p.  381, 
"  appear  to  be  furnished  with  minute  glands, 
secreting  gluten,  which,  upon  exudation,  con- 
vert the  carbonate  of  lime  in  the  ocean,  and 
other  earthy  matters,  into  a  fixed  and  concrete 
substance,  twisted  and  fashioned  in  every  va- 
riety of  shape.     The  formation  of  coral  is  one 
of  those  chemical  processes  in  the  great  labo- 
ratory of  nature,  which  the  skill  of  man  has 
not  enabled  him  either  to  imitate  or  to  compre- 
hend ;  but  the  fact  is  clear,  that  large  masses 
of  solid  rock  are  formed  by  those  diminutive 
living  agents,  sea-workers,  toiling  and   spin- 
ning to  the  music  of  the  waves ;  w-hose  con- 
structions are  capable  of  resisting  the  tremen- 
dous   power  of  ocean,  when    most    agitated 
by  winds  and  tempests,  and  ultimately  become 
a  secure  habitation  for    man  himself.      The 
corai  substance  appears  to  bear  the  .same  rela- 
tion to  the  insect,  as  the  shell  of  a  snail  or  an 
oyster  does  to  either  of  those  animals,  without 
which  they  cannot  long  exist ;  and  it  is  upon 
the  death  of  the  animalcules  that  their  separate 
structures  become  firmly  knit  together  by  some 
mysterious  cement,  and  serve  as  the  basis  for 
the  erections  of  fresh  races,  which,  as  they  die 
off,  increase  the  growth  of  tlie  firm  and  solid 
fabric." 

Millions  of  millions  thus,  from  age  to  age, 
With  simplest  skill,  and  toil  onweariable. 


No  moment  and  no  movement  unimproved. 
Line  laid  on  line,  on  terrace  terrace  spread. 
To  swell  the  heightening,  brightening,  gradual 

mound. 
By  marvellous  stnictare  climbing  towards  the 

day. 
Each  wrought  alone,  yet  all  together  wrought. 
Unconscious,  not  unworthy  instruments. 
By  which  a  hand  invisible  was  raising 
A  new  creation  inthe  secret  deep. 
Omnipotence  wrought  in  them,  with  them,   by 

them  ; 
Hence,  what  Omnipotence  alone  could  do. 
Worms  did. 

Captain  Flinders,  while  surveying  the  coasts 
of  New  Holland,  examined  the  coral  formations 
in  process  there  ;  and  his  remarks  seem  to  me 
to  give  the  true  theory  of  coral  reefs,  if  there  be 
added  the  fact  of  the  natural  precipitation  of 
carbonate  of  lime  from  the  sea-water  in  which  it 
is  held  in  solution,  and  the  formation  of  the  ce- 
ment by  electrical  agency  and  heat.  "  It  seems 
to  me,"  he  writes,  «  that  when  the  animalcules, 
which  form  the  coral  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean, 
cease  to  live,  their  structures  adhere  to  each 
other  by  virtue  eitlier  of  the  glutinous  remains 
within,  or  of  some  property  in  salt  water ;  and  the 
interstices  being  gradually  filled  up  with  sand 
and  broken  pieces  of  coral  washed  by  the  sea, 
which  also  adhere,  a  mass  of  rock  is  at  length 
formed.     Future  races  of  these  animalcules 
erect  their  habitations  upon  the   rising  bank, 
and  die  in  their  turn,  to  increase  this  monu- 
ment of  their  wonderful  labors.      The  care 
taken  to  work  perpendicularly  in   the  early 
stages,  would  mark  a  surprising  instinct  in 
these  discriminative  creatures.      Their  wall  of 
coral,  for  the  most  part,  in  situations  where  the 
winds  are  constant,  being  arrived  at  the  sur- 
face, affords  a  shelter,  to  leeward  of  which 
their  infant  colonies  may  be  safely  sent  forth  ; 
and  to  this,  their  instinctive  foresight,  it  seems 
to  be  owing  that  the  windward  side  of  a  reef, 
exposed  to  the  open  sea,   is  generally,  if  not 
always,  the  highest  part,  and  rises  almost  per- 
pendicular, sometimes  from  the  depth  of  two 
hundred,  and  perhaps  many  more  fathoms."* 


*  CommaE''.'i  vVjlkes,  of  our  Exploring  Squad- 
ron, sounded  only  one  hundred  and  fifty  fathoms 
from  the  perpendicular  coral  cliff  of  Aurora  Island, 
but  found  no  bottom  with  a  line  of  that  length. 


278 


PIONEER    LIFE 


iPir(DMigigm  iLH^is. 


BY    SOW,    JR. 


It  was  in  the  spring  of  forty-four  that  I 
found  myself,  wife,  and  little  ones  seeking  a 
home  in  the  wilds  of  Western  Michigan.  No, 
dear  reader,  not  strictly  seeking;  for  that  home 
was  yet  to  be  created  in  the  beautiful,  sparse, 
opening  forest,  with  which  that  region  abounds. 

The  spot  for  our  house  was  already  selected, 
and  we  were  soon  domesticated  in  the  family  of 
a  settler,  one  and  a  half  miles  from  the  site  of 
our  future  home. 

Assisted  by  a  carpenter,  and  the  strong 
arms  of  the  sturdy  backwoodsmen,  1  soon 
reared  a  comfortable  log  cabin.  I  would  in- 
form tlie  reader  that  the  labor  of  a  carpenter  is 
usually  dispensed  with  in  building  a  log-liouse  ; 
consequently  my  domicil  presented,  compara- 
tively, a  trim  appearance,  and  was  tolerably 
convenient  in  its  inside  arrangement.  This 
did  not  excite  the  envy  of  my  neighbors,  who 
had  many  a  hearty  laugh  at  my  ignorance  of 
log-house    architecture.      In  a  few  days  the 

house  was  completed ;  and   Mrs.  G ,  the 

little  ones,  and  myself,  were  ensconced  within 
its  fort-like  walls. 

For  tlie  curiosity  of  those  who  have  never 
seen  a  western  log-house,  I  will  give  the  "  Plan 
and  Specifications."  First,  a  large  tree  is  fallen 
as  near  the  site  of  the  dwelling  as  possible : 
two  logs  are  cut  off,  and  drawn  around  parallel 
with  each  other,  at  a  suitable  distance  apart ; 
These  form  the  side  sills,  and  of  course  deter- 
mine the  width  of  the  building,  which  varies 
with  the  want  or  caprice  of  the  immigrant. 
Two  other  logs  are  now  lain  in  a  transverse 
position,  across  the  ends  of  the  first.  The 
foundation  now  being  laid,  a  cellar,  of  not  very 
ample  dimensions,  is  dug,  and  the  dirt  thrown 
over  the  sills,  and  levelled  off.  The  sides  of 
the  cellar  being  dug  shelving,  the  necessity  of 
a  wall  is  obviated.  The  logs  are  now  cut  of 
the  proper  length — being  about  twelve  incites 
in  diameter — and  left,  duly  arranged,  around 
the  foundation.  Neighbora  are  summoned  for 
miles  around  ;  and  many  a  weary  mile  will  the 
sturdy  backwoodsman  travel,  to  assist  at  a  log- 


house  raising ;  for  the  recollection  is  fresh  in 
his  memory  when  like  favors  were  as  freely 
rendered  to  him. 

Now  comes   the   tug  of  war.      After  duly 
arranging  the  sleepers  for  the   floor,  an  expert 
axe-man  is  stationed  at  each  corner.  As  the  logs 
are  rolled  up,  the  ends  of  each  are  squared, 
and  fitted  for  the  reception  of  its  fellow.     The 
pile  is  soon  reared ;  and  the  owner  is  left  to 
finish  the  structure  according  to  his  means  and 
taste.     If  the  means  of  the  immigrant  allow  it, 
the  gables  are  boarded  and  the  roof  shingled : 
if   not,  logs  complete  the  gable;  and  strips, 
three  feet  in  length,  and  four  to  six  inches  in 
width,  riven  from  the  oak,  supply  the  place  of 
shingles.    Openings  like  portholes  are  chopped 
through  the  sides,  and  supplied  with  glass  win- 
dows.    Doors  soon  swing  on  wooden  hinges. 
Loose  boards  are  thrown  upon  joist  infixed  in 
the  walls,  and  a  chamber  is  created.    A  scuttle 
door  gives  entrance  to  the  cellar.    The  logs  are 
hewn  down  within  to  give  an  even  surface  ; 
the  interstices  are  filled  in  with  wood  and  mud, 
to  keep  out  the  cold  ;  a  huge  fireplace  yawns 
on  one  side,  and  the  backwoodsman's  castle  is 
complete.      Its  embellishments  are    few,  but 
characteristic.     On  one  side  of  the  room  is  a 
large  chest,  which  answers  the  double  purpose 
of  wardrobe  and  settee.     On  the  opposite  side 
hangs  an  antique  carved  frame,  containing  the 
fragments  of  a  shattered  looking-glass ;    the 
feather  bed,  in  which  it  was  wrapped,  was  not 
a  sufficient  protection  against  the  rough  usage 
which  it  received  in   its  long  and  wearisome 
journeyings.     In  one  corner  of  a  room  stands  a 
bed,  from  under  wliicli  a  well-used  axe  show^ 
its  silvery  edge.     On  two  hooks,  fastened  in  a 
beam  over  the  yawning  fireplace,  hangs  the 
rifle  :  as  if  to  attest  tlie  certainty  of  its  aim,  in 
close   proximity  hang  the  antlers  of  a  noble  . 
stag.     Such,  dear  reader,  you  may  imagine  to 
be  the  home  of  many  a  backwoodsman.    Such, 
in  many  respects,  was  my  own  loved  and  ever 
to  be  remembered  home  in  the  wilderness  of 
Western  Michigan. 


THE    POETRY    OP    THE    HEAVENS.  279 


■ITIEIIg  ]P(DIgirmY  (DI?  flSriS  IEIISA¥3EHS. 


BT    ANDREW    DICKINSON. 


Hast  thou  e'er  scanned,  at  silent  midnight  hour, 
Yon  sparkling  volume  of  ethereal  light — 
Those  star-illumined  pages  of  the  heavens  ? 
Deep  shining  words  of  wonder,  pure  and  true. 
Beam  on  the  eye,  and  flash  through  all  the  soul, 
Kindling  strange  raptures.     Oh,  how  numberless 
The  starry  hosts  of  Night !    The  thoughtful  mind 
Looks  with  astonishment,  transfixed  with  awe. 

Great  was  the  throng  of  preachers,  when  His  word 
Spake  out  of  darkness  all  the  shining  orbs 
That  bum  forever  in  the  temple-dome 
Of  the  Great  King  Eternal.     They  went  forth 
In  glorious  pomp  and  silent  eloquence. 
On  their  eternal  mission  in  the  skies  ; 
And  nightly  sprinkle  down  their  golden  light, 
As  kindly  messages  to  darkened  Man. 

Book  of  eternal  wonders  !  lit  with  gems 
Of  unknown  glory — decked  with  myriad  stars 
Scattered  through  boundless  ether :  teaching  truths 
Of  wondrous  meaning.     Man  from  death  shall  rise 
Like  orient  planets  from  the  grave  of  Night, 
And  the  soul  live  in  the  eternal  heavens. 

Unnumbered  constellations  deck  the  sky : 
How  peerless  is  their  splendor !  emblems  pure 
Of  Hope  celestial,  and  the  destiny 
Of  the  immortal  Spirit  in  the  realms 
Of  cloudless  glory.     There,  the  pure  in  heart 
Shall  shine  like  stars  around  th'  eternal  throne, 
And  see  the  matchless  beauty  of  the  King. 

Planets  and  suns,  what  countless  multitudes ! 
Orion's  golden  lamps  ;  the  Pleiades, 
Pale-shining ;  and  Arcturus  with  his  sons : 
Some  shed  cold-trembling  beams  along  the  gloom, 
Whose  awful  travels  down  the  boundless  sky. 
On  their  long  journey  since  the  world  began. 
But  yesterday  have  reached  this  mundane  sphere. 
Ah  !  wha  can  count  the  myriads  of  heaven 
Along  th'  illimitable  ocean-void  ? 

I  love  the  music  of  the  starry  spheres, 
Where  orbs  of  diff'ring  glory  swell  the  maze, 
Convolved  and  complex  to  th'  untutored  eye, 
Yet  order  and  harmonious  beauty  all. 
To  the  instructed  soul.     Delightful  songs 
In  harmony  of  numbers  please  the  ear 
Of  listening  Fancy :  sympathetic  chords 


280 


BYRON    AND    SHAKSPEARE. 


Of  the  rapt  spirit  breathe  a  soft  response 
To  the  celestial  music  of  the  skies  ! 

Are  Heaven's  foundations  laid  among  the  stars  ? 
Dotli  yon  bright  galaxy  of  ocean-light 
Come  from  the  towers  of  New  Jerusalem — 
Mansions  of  bliss — celestial  palaces  ? 
Th'  Almighty  Builder  of  the  starry  dome 
Veils  his  resplendent  throne  from  mortal  gaze  : 
Imagination  never  yet  hath  scanned 
The  boundless  path  along  the  Milky  Way, 
Or  caught  the  faintest  glimpse  of  His  abode  : 
The  daring  soul  would  take  ambitious  range 
Through  heaven  and  hell,  but  finds  no  beacon-star 
To  guide  the  fearful  pilgrim  on  his  way 
To  the  eternal  city.     Boundless  wastes 
Lie  all  around  the  star-bespangled  path 
Through  vast  creation's  dreary  solitudes  : 
Heaven's  awful  Architect  dwells  everywhere  ! 

Alone,  in  midnight  silence,  let  me  view 
The  glittering  arch,  and  hear  the  Morning  Stars 
Praise  Him  in  brightness,  and  together  sing, 
While  all  the  sons  of  glory  shout  for  joy  : 
They  praise  but  One,  worthy  of  endless  song, 
Who  is  himself  the  Bright  and  Morning  Star ! 


IBYmcDM   AUHD   SIEIAESIPlEAmig 


The  impressions  left  upon  the  mind  of  one 
who  has  just  closed  the  works  of  Lord  Byron, 
are  far  too  favorable  to  his  character  as  a  man 
of  universal  genius.  He  strikes  the  various 
chords  of  the  human  heart  with  great  skill,  but 
it  is  only  those  of  a  lower  key  that  give  a  strong 
response.  The  melancholic,  the  despairing  and 
the  awful,  are  strings  which  own  his  sway,  and 
vibrate  fully  at  his  slightest  touch.  He  there- 
fore exerts  an  undue  influence  upon  the  reader, 
and  it  is  only  when  we  compare  him  with  other 
poets,  the  universality  of  whose  genius  is 
acknowledged,  that  we  truly  appreciate  him. 

It  has  always  been  considered  a  course  of 
policy,  for  the  one  who  has  a  peculiar  and 
extraordinary  bent  for  any  one  branch  of  lite- 
rature or  science,  to  devote  himself  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  that  propensity.  Whether  this  be 
the  wise  method,  is  a  doubtful  question  ;  yet  it 
is  evidently  tlie  one  upon  which  Lord  Byroa 


acted.  His  success,  therefore,  in  one  particular 
department,  ought  not  to  be  estimated  as  the 
measure  of  his  power  in  another. 

As  a  poet,  when  compared  with  Shakspearc, 
he  resembles  an  unbalanced  and  distorted  tree, 
whose  branches  and  foliage,  at  one  angle,  ex- 
hibit the  green  luxuriance  of  health  and  vigor, 
but  at  every  other  are  dry  and  crumbling 
standing  side  by  side,  with  the  symmetrical 
oak,  whose  majestic  proportions  veer  only  in 
the  tumult  of  the  terrific  tornado.  We  doubt 
not  that  individual  passages  may  be  found  in 
Byron,  which  equal  any  penned  by  the  hand  of 
Shakspearc.  This  only  proves  that  the  former, 
i  with  his  passions  lashed  to  the  utmost  fury,  was 
capable  of  producing  what  the  latter  has  given 
U8  in  a  peaceful  calm.  Imagine,  if  we  can, 
that  gigantic  and  world-absorbing  intellect,  that 
deepest  of  souls,  in  turbid  commotion,  and  then 
may  we  judge  of  tlie  comparative  energy  of  the 


BYROx^I    AND     SHAKSPEARE. 


281 


two  posts.  Byron's  flashes  would  appear  like 
a  village  bonfire,  when  contrasted  with  the 
cloud-piercing  volcano,  whose  mouth  belched 
out  oceans  of  flame,  threatening  to  inundate 
the  universe,  and  whose  sides  were  torn  with 
rivers  of  living  lava,  "  red,  right  onward,  and 
irresistible." 

It  would  seem  no  very  difficult  task  for  a 
man  of  ordinary  ability,  to  exhibit  upon  the 
stage  his  own  personal  feelings  and  motives — 
his  injuries  and  estrangement  from  the  world. 
In  his  plays  Byron  has  done  scarcely  more. 
His  heroes  are  but  Lord  Byron  slightly  trans- 
muted. But  Shakspeare  wanders  over  the 
whole  world,  seizing  every  character,  and  in- 
stead of  creating  them  all  Shakspeares,  he 
breathes  Shakspeare  into  their  own  person- 
ality. They  stand  forth  natural  men  and 
women,  but  touched  by  a  master  hand.  Here 
is  Byron's  great  defect  as  a  dramatist.  Upon 
his  characters  the  direst  judgments  of  Heaven 
create  no  veneration — no  fear.  Bold-faced, 
they  gaze  upon  the  convulsed  elements,  and 
utter  imprecations  upon  that  hand  "  which 
tempereth  the  vvind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  as  it 
guides  the  forked  lightnings  past  and  leaves 
them  unscathed ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
in  Shakspeare,  the  forsaken  and  the  afflicted, 
though  they  give  way  to  sad  complaints,  yet 
recognize  the  Omnipotence  of  Him  "  who  doeth 
all  things  well."  In  the  first  case,  we  see  na- 
ture perverted  to  the  state  of  a  demon  ;  in  the 
last,  we  see  her  as  she  is.  To  illustrate  this 
point,  compare  the  humane  and  dejected  Jaques 
with  the  misanthropic,  heaven-excluded  Man- 
fred. 

But  neither  of  these  poets  confines  himself 
to  the  natural  world.  Byron,  like  a  "  wild 
diver,"  pierces  the  depths  of  Pandemonium,  and 
drags  his  spirits  from  their  black  abodes.  Shak- 
speare, with  the  motion-  of  his  magical  wand, 
calls  them  to  rise  or  sink  at  will.  Airy  sprites 
become  invested  with  the  human  form,  and 
then  vanish  into  emptiness.  To  the  latter  they 
come  like  obedient  servants ;  the  other  pos- 
sesses an  irresistible  yet  questioned  control 
over  them,  and  when  the  charm  is  broken,  they 
flit  away  as  an  angry  cloud, 

Byron's  non-conformity  to  nature,  not  only 
discovers  itself  in  the  development  of  individual 


character,  but  also  in  the  general  plot  of  his 
plays.  True,  they  have  catastrophes,  yet  there 
is  but  a  slight  connection  between  the  principal 
events  and  these  catastrophes.  His  plays 
appear  like  sets  of  discordant  circumstances 
forced  into  company,  having  no  classific  re- 
semblance, and  converging  toward  no  grand 
idea.  The  distinct  parts  might  as  properly  be 
spoken  by  one  person,  as  by  different  persons. 
Not  that  the  words  do  not  delineate  some  char- 
acter, but  that  each  representation  exhibits 
some  characteristic  element  of  the  same  char- 
acter. 

In  Byron  there  is  no  dramatic  action.  We 
are  compelled  to  sit  such  a  time,  and  then 
comes  the  climax.  By  Shakspeare  we  are  hur- 
ried along  with  the  speed  of  reality.  Armies 
bristle,  engage,  and  are  conquered  in  an  hour. 
Our  minds  take  in  the  scope  of  years  at  a 
glance.  Byron's  dramas  have  many  of  the 
excellencies  of  poetry,  few  of  the  excellencies 
of  the  drama. 

With  their  works  for  our  standard,  what  shall 
we  say  of  them  as  men  ?  The  one  roams  about, 
an  exile  from  home,  native  land,  and  happiness. 
The  other  liveth  a  cosmopolite.  All  nations 
extend  to  him  the  hand  of  brotherhood.  They 
gaze  with  wonder  upon  the  forced  flights  of  the 
one,  while  they  love  and  venerate  the  ready, 
and  easy,  and  no  less  lofty  course  of  the  other. 
As  moralists,  we  behold  the  former  desecrating 
the  holiest  ties  of  our  nature,  and  trampling 
upon  all  rule  but  the  guidance  of  a  corrupt 
soul.  He  unfolds  the  sensual  with  such  deli- 
cate strokes  and  fanciful  allusions,  that  we  are 
borne  along  witli  him  before  we  are  aware  of 
his  purpose.  The  immorality  of  Shakspeare,. 
if  such  it  may  be  called,  never  corrupts  us  by 
its  fascination,  for  it  issues  abrupt  and  undis- 
guised. 

As  bodies  revolving  in  the  same  literary 
heavens,  Byron  will  shine,  a  star,  cold  and 
cheerless  to  the  human  heart,  yet  with  lonely 
splendor.  Shakspeare,  as  an  universal  sun, 
will  radiate  heat,  health  and  life  ;  and  if  in  the 
dim  vista  of  past  ages  his  brilliancy  be  obscured 
by  human  ignorance  and  pride,  other  planets 
shall  arise,  and  with  borrowed  rays,  i]!umin& 
the  Night  of  Time. 


282 


OUR    COUSINS    ACROSS    THE    WAY. 


(D¥IE  (SdDirSIEIIS   MKD^S   ^Mlg  WAYc 


BY    THEODORE    THINKER. 


A  VERT  singular  sort  of  people  were  those 
cousins  across  the  way.  So  we  always  regard- 
ed them  at  our  house,  that  is,  at  Uncle  Mike's  ; 
for  I  went  to  live  with  him  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  very  narrowly  escaped  becoming  a  farmer 
under  his  tuition.  When  any  stranger  came 
to  visit  us,  and  inquired  at  all  about  the  neigh- 
bors opposite,  I  remember  we  generally  used  to 
evade  their  questions  by  saying,  with  a  some- 
wiiat  knowing  air,  "  Oh,  they  are  odd  sort  of 
folks."  For  a  good  many  years  we  never  said 
anything  better  of  them,  at  any  rate.  Why 
should  we  ?  They  were  the  oddest  set  of  crea- 
tures in  the  world,  in  our  way  of  thinking. 

To  begin  with,  Uncle  Miah  was  a  Democrat, 
and  piping  hot  at  that ;  and  Democrats,  in  the 
region  of  Blue  Hill,  where  we  lived,  were 
scarce  enough  to  be  put  into  the  museum  with 
stuffed  alligators  and  flying-fish.  Then  he 
was  a  Methodist — "  a  shouting  Methodist,"  we 
used  to  call  him — and  Aunt  Sibyl  and  all  the 
children  were  as  bad  as  he  was.  Oh,  such  ugly 
looking  bonnets  as  the  girls  wore  !  We  could 
not  bear  the  sight  of  them.  Every  Sunday 
morning,  just  as  regularly  as  the  sun  rose,  and 
almost  as  early.  Uncle  Miah  would  rig  out  his 
old  lumber  waggon,  and  the  whole  family  would 
pile  in,  and  ride  half  a  dozen  miles  to  the  Meth- 
odist meeting.  That  provoked  us  a  good  deal ; 
for  there  was  a  Presbyterian  church  close  by 
us,  on  Blue  Hill.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what 
possessed  them  to  do  so.  Uncle  Mike  once 
told  our  minister  that  he  did  believe  Uncle  Miah 
got  into  the  habit  of  doing  some  things  on  pur- 
pose to  be  odd  ;  and  so  it  always  seemed  to  me. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  the  hat  he  wore,  and 
the  coat  too.  We  boys  used  to  make  ourselves 
very  merry  at  the  expense  of  the  old  man's 
Sunday  uniform,  as  wo  called  it  on  our  s-ide  of 
tl>e  way.  Besides,  Uncle  Miah  had  an  odd 
way  of  managing  his  farm.  He  never  did  any- 
thing as  we  did.  Oh,  he  was  a  most  bungling 
farmer.  For  instance,  he  drove  the  old  sorrel 
horses  that  ho  went  to  meeting  with,  in  the 
place  of  oxen.  Once,  I  know,  when  he  liad 
pitched  a  pretty  large  load  of  hay  on  his  cart, 


the  horses  took  fright  at  something,  and  away 
they  ran  down  the  hill,  and  came  up  all  stand- 
ing, against  the  stone  fence  at  the  bottom. 
One  of  the  horses  got  his  leg  broken.  Uncle 
had  one  of  his  boys  on  the  load,  too,  and  he  was 
tlirown  off,  and  pitched  over  the  fence — into  the 
ditch,  for  aught  T  know,  for  the  old  man  had  a 
deep  ditch  somewhere  in  that  vicinity.  It 
served  him  right,  we  all  thought  across  the 
way.  He  had  no  business  to  use  horses  ;  next 
time  he  should  cart  hay  with  oxen,  as  we  did. 
Oxen  would  never  run  away.  Uncle  Miah 
might  have  known  better. 

As  for  Aunt  Sibyl,  she  was  forever  doing 
some  outlandish  thing  or  another.  We  thought 
it  was  a  wonder  how  they  ever  got  along  at  all, 
with  such  management  in  the  house.  Such 
odd  cheeses  as  she  made,  you  never  dreamed  of. 
She  had  a  bed  of  tansy  in  the  garden  in  front 
of  the  house ;  and  I  do  believe  I  have  seen 
her  gathering  tansy  there — for  it  was  in 
plain  sigiit  from  our  house — as  many  as  fifty 
times.  I  have  twenty  times,  I  know.  And 
what  do  you  think  the  woman  did  with  that 
bitter  tansy  ?  The  girl  that  lived  at  our  house 
said  she  could  take  her  oath  that  she  had  seen 
Aunt  Sibyl  boil  it  down  strong,  many  a  time, 
and  put  it  into  her  cheese.  But  I  cannot  re- 
member half  the  strange  stories  I  have  heard 
about  Aunt  Sibyl's  housekeeping. 

An  odd  sort  of  people  were  those  cousins 
across  the  way.  Now  my  Uncle  Mike  was  a 
Federalist,  and  went  for  the  Hartford  Conven- 
tion, and  everything  else  that  was  good,  accord- 
ing to  the  notions  of  the  folks  that  lived  about 
Blue  Hill.  Besides,  he  was  a  tithing  man  in 
the  Presbyterian  Church  ;  and  you  must  know 
that  atithingman,  in  Connecticut,  was, in  those 
days,  very  much  looked  up  to.  He  was  ap- 
pointed by  the  parish,  I  believe,  to  keep  order 
in  the  meeting;  and,  as  the  precise  limit 
of  his  authority  was  never  very  clearly  defined, 
and  the  boys  were  sometimes  quite  unruly,  in 
securing  order,  he  made  a  great  deal  of  disor- 
der once  in  a  while.  The  little  urchins  on  Blue 
Hill  knew  but  little  about  delicate  thin  calf-skin 


OUR    COUSINS    ACROSS    THE    WAY. 


283 


s!:oes  in  that  age  of  the  world,  I  can  tell  you  ; 
and  when  the  tithing  man  caught  a  mischie- 
vous youth  in  the  gallery,  cutting  the  panels 
of  the  old-fashioned  pew  with  his  jack-knife, 
and  when  the  poor  fellow  was  made  to  march 
half  across  the  meeting-house,  with  his  cow- 
hide boots  on,  to  the  tithing  man's  seat,  you 
could  almost  fancy  a  horse  was  trotting  over 
those  white  oak  floors.  Such  was  the  tithing 
system.  The  business  of  a  tithing  man,  as 
you  see,  was  a  kind  of  military  service.  It  was 
to  conquer  a  peace ;  and  I  don't  know,  now  I 
think  of  it,  but  that  was  the  reason  why  Uncle 
Mike  was  always  called  captain  in  our  neigh- 
borhood, for  I  never  heard  that  he  was  so  dis- 
tinguished at  the  militia  trainings. 

Of  course  our  family  was  a  great  deal  more 
respectable  than  Uncle  Miah's.  Everybody 
knew  that  Uncle  Miah  held  some  kind  of  office 
in  the  Methodist  meeting ;  but  what  it  was  I 
never  could  find  out,  only  that  it  had  a  very 
barbarous  name.  I  believe  the  Blue  H.ll  folks 
used  to  make  fun  about  it,  sometimes.  We 
did,  at  all  events,  on  our  side  of  the  w;iy. 

The  truth  is,  we  did  not  like  our  ccusins  on 
the  opposite  side  at  all,  and  they  did  DDt  like  us 
much  better,  I  should  think.  I  cannot  tell  how 
bad  it  was  before  I  came  to  Blue  Hill  to  live. 
But  it  was  bad  enough  then,  I  am  sure.  Our 
folks  would  not  let  me  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  other  family,  if  they  could  help  it; 
though  I  confess  I  did  steal  away  sometimes, 
to  chat  with  cousin  Mary — dear  little  Mary. 
She  is  in  heaven  now,  God  called  her  home 
while  she  was  young.  She  is  an  angel  now ; 
she  seemed  one  then.  When  I  was  quite  a 
child,  I  remember  that  one  of  the  boys  on  our 
side  of  the  way  threw  stones  at  Uncle  Miah's 
sheep,  because  they  got  into  our  pasture,  and 
hit  one  of  them,  so  that  it  always  went  lame 
afterwards.  I  remember,  too,  hearing  Uncle 
Mike  say  it  was  good  enough  for  them  ;  that 
they  might  keep  their  rascally  sheep  at  home 
next  time  ;  and  that  they  ought  to  be  thankful 
the  sheep  got  off  without  having  its  neck 
broken.  This  made  a  good  deal  of  a  tempest, 
across  the  way;  and  Uncle  Miah  said,  he 
guessed  he  could  take  care  of  himself,  and 
that  he  meant  to  come  up  with  us  one  of  these 


Well,  he  had  a  chance  to  come  up  with  us 
before  long.  We  had  some  unruly  hens.  They 
were  not  satisfied  with  scratching  up  all 
the  seeds  in  our  garden ;  but  one  morning, 
before  Uncle  Miah  and  his  boys  had  got  out 


i  into  the  field  to  work,  over  they  went,  the 
whole  tribe  of  them,  and  commenced  opera- 
tions with  the  garden  across  the  way.  Uncle 
Miah  was  very  nice  and  particular  about  his 
garden,  and  he  had  just  finished  planting  it. 
It  must  have  been  rather  vexatious  to  the  old 
gentleman,  to  see  those  hens  scratching  up  his 
seeds.  He  did  not  wait  long  to  deliberate 
about  what  it  was  best  to  do ;  but  he  took 
down  the  musket,  which  once  did  service  in 
the  Revolutionary  war,  and  which,  I  suspect,  he 
kept  loaded  on  purpose,  and  blazed  away  at  our 
hens.  We  heard  the  noise,  and  ran  out  to  see 
what  on  earth  was  the  matter ;  for  such  a 
thing  as  shooting,  except  on  training  days,  was 
rare  enough  around  Blue  Hill. 

Well,  sure  enough.  Uncle  Miah  had  stopped 
the  crowing  of  two  as  fine  roosters  as  any  one 
need  wish  to  see,  and  coolly  took  them  up,  and 
tossed  them  over  into  our  yard. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?''  said  Uncle  Mike. 

"  It  means  that  I  have  brought  you  some- 
thing to  keep  thanksgiving  with,"  said  Uncle 
Miah  ;  "  and  it  means,  that  if  I  catch  the  rest 
of  those  hens  in  my  garden  again,  I'll  let  day- 
light shine  through  the  whole  batch  of  them,  if 
I  can.     That's  what  it  means." 

And  tlie  two  uncles  looked  daggers  at  each 
other. 

"  I'll  teach  you  to  shoot  my  hens,"  said  the 
one  from  our  side  of  the  fence  ;  and  he  took 
up  the  larger  of  the  roosters,  and  hurled  it  at 
Uncle  Miah.  It  hit  him  on  the  breast,  all  over 
blood  as  it  was.  "There,  take  that,"  said 
Uncle  Mike,  "  for  your  thanksgiving  supper — 
and  that,"  throwing  the  other  fowl ;  though  he 
was  not  so  successful  in  his  aim  that  time. 

I  have  forgotten  on  which  side  of  the  fence 
the  poor  roosters  finally  rested.  But  I  remem- 
ber well,  that  they  were  thrown  back  and  forth 
a  number  of  times,  and  that  we  boys  had  a 
boisterous  laugh  about  the  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion used  in  that  skirmish — a  skirmish  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  the  Battle  of  Blue  Hill," 
in  our  town,  to  this  day.  Uncle  Mike,  how- 
ever, never  liked  to  hear  about  that  affair.  I 
have  many  a  time  seen  a  cloud  gather  around 
his  brow,  and  heard  more  or  less  thunder,  when 
the  thing  was  hinted  at.  He  was  ashamed  of 
it,  I  think. 

There  was  one  of  Uncle  Miah's  odd  whims, 
which,  at  the  time  of  it,  worried  his  brother, 
the  Federalist,  more  than  this  shooting  of  his 
hens,  a  great  deal.  Indeed,  it  always  seemed 
to  me,  from  the  manner  in  which  the  thing  was 


284 


OUR    COUSINS    ACROSS    THE    WAY. 


spoken  of  on  our  side  of  the  way,  that  this  was 
the  first  of  Uncle  Miah's  long  catalogue  of 
offences  ;  for,  in  some  way  or  another,  when 
the  family  talked  over  the  matter  among  them- 
selves, the  whole  stream  of  the  troubles  was 
frequently  traced  up  to  that  source,  and  there 
they  stoppad.  That  wliim  of  Uncle  Miah's 
was  sotting  up  the  Jefferson  liberty  pole.  I 
must  tell  you  about  tiiat  liberty  pole,  though  it 
was  put  up  before  my  recollection. 

As  far  back  as  the  last  war — we  used  to  call 
it  the  last  war,  though  I  don't  know  but  we 
shall  have  to  drop  that  way  of  talking  now — the 
fever  of  politics  was  pretty  high,  as  it  has  been 
since,  sometimes.  It  raged  violently  about 
Blue  Hill.  Nobody  died  with  it,  that  ever  I 
could  learn,  but  a  great  many  took  it,  and  had 
it  very  hard.  There  was  something  quite  sin- 
gular, and  almost  ludicrous,  about  the  political 
excitement  at  Blue  Hill,  however.  It  was 
nearly  all  on  one  side.  The  Federalists  were 
as  plenty  as  blackberries  ;  and  they  always  had 
it  pretty  much  their  own  way.  There  were 
only  two  full-grown  men  in  town  who  were 
known  as  Democrats  ;  one  of  wlwm,  as  I  have 
said  before,  was  Uncle  Miah.  He  was  the  only 
one,  in  fact,  that  made  the  opposite  party  any 
trouble.  The  other  belonged  to  that  class  and 
order  of  men,  who  go  through  the  world  with- 
out hitting  anybody  with  their  elbows.  He 
was  a  quiet  sort  of  a  man,  and  contented  him- 
self with  believing  and  voting  just  as  Uncle 
Miah  said,  of  course.  He  was  very  much 
thought  of  by  the  folks  across  the  way.  Un- 
cle Miah  was  heard  to  say  once,  that  you 
might  go  a  good  ways  in  the  world,  and  not 
stumble  over  another  such  a  clever  fellow  as 
Billy  Tompkins. 

How  natural  it  is  for  us  all  to  have  a  toler- 
ably good  opinion  of  those  who  agree  with  us, 
and  who  perhaps  flatter  us  a  little,  once  in  a 
while,  and  make  us  think  that  we  know  rather 
more  than  most  people  think  we  do.  "  My 
wife's  nephew,"  eays  my  friend,  the  Doctor, 
(who,  you  should  know,  lias  written  a  volume  of 
poetry,  and  was  once  a  candidate  for  Congress) 
•'  my  wife's  nephew  is  a  sensible  lad.  He 
reads  my  book  ;  likes  my  stories ;  admires  my 
pinging,  and  thinks  as  I  do  in  politics.  He  is 
a  youth  of  parts,  and  con^iidcrablc  promise." 

But  about  that  liberty  pole.  A  week  <r 
more  before  one  Independence  day.  Uncle 
Miah  and  Billy  Tompkins  went  into  the  woods 
belonging  to  tho  farm  across  the  way  from 
oar  house,  and  cut  down  just  tho  tallest,  straight- 


est,  and  smoothest  tree  they  could  find,  hitched 
the  sorrel  horses  to  it,  brought  it  home,  and 
dropped  it  right  in  front  of  Uncle  Miah's  door. 

"  What  now  ?"  said  the  uncle  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way,  for  they  were  on  good  terms 
before  that. 

Uncle  Miah  was  never  a  great  talker,  but  in 
this  case  he  dealt  out  his  words  more  sparingly 
than  usual.  "  I'm  going  to  teach  the  Blue  Hill 
folks  which  way  the  wind  blows,"  said  he  ;  and 
that  was  all  anybody  could  get  out  of  him. 

By  and  by  the  fourth  of  July  came  round, 
and  early  in  the  morning,  about  the  time  the 
old  cracked  bell  on  the  Blue  Hill  meeting-house 
began  to  ring,  Uncle  Miah,  with  the  help  of 
Billy,  was  seen  from  our  door-yard,  setting  up 
that  long  cedar  pole  in  the  ground,  right  in 
front  of  his  door.  Uncle  "Mike  then  began  to 
"  get  his  eye-teeth  cut,"  as  they  used  tc  say  in 
Connecticut.  "  Well,  Miah  is  an  odd  sort  of 
a  chap,"  thought  he  ;  "I  wonder  what  he'll  do 
next." 

The  liberty  pole  went  up,  and  all  the  folks  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way  came  out  into  the 
yard,  to  look  at  it.  Of  course  tliey  did  not  like 
it  at  all,  and  I  will  tell  you  why.  On  the  top  of 
this  pole  was  something,  in  its  appearance  about 
half  way  between  a  woodchuck  and  a  guinea 
hen,  though  not  much  like  anything  in  the 
heavens  above  or  the  earth  beneath,  made  so 
that  it  would  move  around  with  tiie  wind  ;  and 
on  both  sides  of  this  odd-shaped  image, 

"  If  shape  it  could  be  called,  which  shape  had  none," 

were  the  words,  painted  in  large  letters,  "  Jef- 
ferson and  Liberty."  That  was  too  bad.  Uncle 
Mike,  according  to  tradition,  was  quite  out  of 
patience,  and  stormed  rather  furiously,  for 
a  good-natured  man,  as  he  generally  was. 
"  Thunder  and  lightning,"  said  he,  "  I  can't 
stand  that.  It's  a  disgrace  to  the  whole  town. 
It  has  got  to  come  down,  and  I'll  cut  it  down 
myself,  if  he  don't.     I  declare  I  can't  stand  it." 

However,  tho  liberty  pole  stood  it,  whether 
Uncle  Mike  did  or  not,  and  it  was  standing 
when  I  went  to  live  on  Blue  Hill,  and  a  good 
while  after  that,  too.  It  seems  that  the  naughty 
Democrat,  after  getting  a  terrible  scolding,  told 
Uncle  Mike  that  he  guessed  he  should  do  as  he 
liked  about  the  polo,  as  it  was  on  his  own  land, 
and  that  tho  folks  across  the  way  had  better 
mind  their  own  business.  Take  care.  Uncle 
Miah.  "  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath." 
Youra  is  too  hard  for  tfiat,  methinks. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  before  there  was 


OUR    COUSINS    ACROSS    THE     WAY. 


285 


another  liberty  pole,  on  the  opptosite  side  of  the 
way,  and  on  the  top  of  it  there  was  very  mach 
such  a  strange-looking  animal  as  figured  on  the 
Jefferson  pole,  only  it  puzzled  our  schoolmaster, 
who  was  something  of  a  naturalist,  a  little 
more,  to  tell  whether  it  belonged  to  the  land, 
the  air,  or  the  water.  He  finally  concluded  it 
was  amphibiou&,  I  belie\'e  ;  for  myself,  I  set  it 
down  as  amliiffiious.  This  fish,  or  whatever  it 
was,  had  some  Vords  on  it  that  Uncle  Miah 
did  not  relish  any  better  than  Uncle  Mike  did 
"  Jefferson  and  Liberty."  I  cannot  remember 
what  they  were,  but  I  do  remember  they  had  a 
very  bitter  taste  across  the  way  from  our  house. 

The  two  families  did  not  have  much  to  say  to 
one  another,  from  that  time.  The  two  liberty 
poles,  standing,  year  after  year,  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  way,  frowning  at  each  other,  be- 
gan the  quarrel,  and  they  kept  it  up.  Things 
grew  worse  and  worse.  They  always  do,  you 
know,  in  such  cases.  Unless  you  can  bring  peo- 
ple together,  and  have  them  settle  up  all  the  old 
scores,  the  breach  must  grow  wider  and  wider. 
ft  was  a  sad  state  of  things.  We  all  knew 
that,  on  our  side  of  the  way — perhaps  they  did 
on  the  other  side.  You  must  not  suppose  that 
either  of  these  uncles  was  a  bad  man.  As  the 
world  goes,  they  were  very  far  from  that.  Not 
that  I  mean  to  whitewash  over  this  quarrel  of 
theirs,  and  make  quite  an  innocent  thing  of  it ; 
but  what  I  want  to  get  at  is  this — that  these 
folks  were  not  "  sinners  above  all  the  Galile- 
ans." At  any  rate,  I  can't  think  that  we  were, 
on  our  side  of  the  way.  However,  we  did  show 
some  of  the  old  Adam  in  this  affair,  I  always 
thought. 

Well,  time  passed  away — years,  a  good 
many  of  them,  I  am  sorry  to  say — and  things 
were  no  better.  There  was  scarcely  a  day  but 
something  happened  to  add  a  little  fuel  to  the 
fire  that  had  been  burning  so  long.  There  was 
no  blazing  up  of  the  flame.  It  was  more  like 
a  fire  partly  confined  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
which  now  and  then  shows  itself,  in  the  form 
of  an  earthquake.  There  were  a  great  many 
shocks,  little  and  great,  in  the  course  of  a  year. 
We  children  would  have  got  along  well 
enough,  if  the  old  folks  had  let  us ;  but  they 
really  seemed  to  be  afraid  we  should  make  up. 
Human  nature  is  a  queer  compound,  is  it  not  ? 

One  pleasant  evening,  in  the  fall  of  the  year, 
the  family  across  the  way  were  all  assembled, 
as  their  custom  was,  to  read  the  old  family 
Bible  together,  and  bow  before  God  in  prayer. 
Uncle  Miah  always  prayed  with  his  family, 


night  and  morning.  So  did  Uncle  Mike,  for 
that  matter.  Good  men  are  strangely  incon- 
sistent, sometimes.  After  the  scions  of  religion 
are  grafted  on  the  old  thorn-bush  of  human  na- 
ture, some  of  the  branches  will,  once  in  a  while, 
bear  a  very  sour  and  crabbed  sort  of  apples. 
They  don't  belong  to  the  new  scions,  though. 
But  I  must  not  preach  any  more  sermons. 

They  spent  a  longer  time  tlian  usual  at 
Uncle  Miah's,  that  evening,  in  their  worship. 
It  was  the  eve  of  a  day  very  dear  to  a  New 
Englander.  The  harvests  had  been  gathered 
in  ;  the  grain  was  thrashed.  A  season,  to  the 
farmers  one  of  comparative  repose,  had  come. 
The  chief  magistrate  of  the  State  had  issued 
his  annual  invitation — perhaps  it  .savored  more 
of  a  command,  at  that  period — for  the  Thanks- 
giving festival.  Then  it  was  more  customary 
than  it  is  now,  for  parents  and  children,  sepa- 
rated, perhaps,  during  the  rest  of  the  year,  to 
meet  around  a  common  table,  well  filled  with 
tlie  good  things  they  had  in  store,  and  to  praise 
together  the  Giver  of  them  all.  It  was  the  day 
before  this  precious  festival.  Aunt  Sibyl's 
kitchen  had  been  a  scene  of  bustle  and  confu- 
sion never  presented  but  once  in  a  year.  They 
were  looking  forward  to  a  happy  thanksgiving. 
John  had  come  home  from  the  West,  with  iiis 
young  wife  and  babe ;  Sally,  too,  who  was 
living  with  an  aunt  in  Hartford,  was  expected 
as  soon  as  the  stage  came  in,  and  one  of  the 
boys  was  as  sure  as  could  be  he  heard  the 
driver's  horn  two  or  three  different  times, 
tliough,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  as  often 
mistaken.  Those  drivers  were  not  uoied  for 
coming  in  very  punctually,  at  that  time.  The 
family  had  just  risen  from  their  knees.  Uncle 
Miah  had  made  an  humble,  earnest  ap[>eal  to  the 
throne  of  grace,  ending,  as  he  almost  always  did, 
with  that  beautiful  model  which  we  call  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  The  family  were  all  seated 
around  the  fire,  in  the  "  best  room."  Was 
there  anything  wanting  to  complete  the  hap- 
jMness  of  that  group?  Yps,  there  was  one 
thing. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  father,  addressing  the 
youngest  child,  and  the  pet,  by  common  con- 
sent, "  come  here ;  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." And  Mary  came  and  took  her  place  on 
her  fkther's  knee.  She  was  not  more  than  seven 
or  eight  years  old,  then,  I  think.  Dear,  dear 
little  Mary !  I  seem  to  hear  her  sweet  voice 
now,  asking  questions  about  God,  and  Jesus 
Christ,  and  heaven.  She  was  a  very  serious 
child,  for  one  of  her  years.     Was  her  heavenly 


2S6 


OUR    COUSINS    ACROSS  THE    WAY. 


Father  preparing  her  80  early  for  her  home  in 
U»e  skies  ?  I  cannot  tell ;  but  she  had  learned 
much  of  the  language  of  lieaven. 

"Mary,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "let  me 
hear  you  say  the  Lord's  Prayer." 
The  child  repeated  it. 

"  That  is  a  good  girl.  Do  you  know  what 
that  prayer  means,  Mary  ?" 
"  Yes,  pa,  I  think  I  do." 
"  Well,  let  me  see."  And  he  began  to  ques- 
tion her  on  each  clause  by  itself,  beginning 
with  "  Our  Father."  Uncle  Miah  was  sur- 
prised and  delighted.  He  did  not  remember 
that  the  same  God  who  called  Samuel  speaks, 
tliough  in  a  different  way,  to  little  children  now. 
His  heart  was  full,  and  he  kissed  tiie  child  of 
his  old  age  again  and  again,  and  called  her  his 
"darling  Mary."  So  he  went  on  with  his 
questions,  till  he  cama  to  the  words,  "  Forgive 
us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who  tres- 
pass against  us." 

"  Well,  my  child,  can  you  tell  me  what  that 
means  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  certainly.  I  suppose  it 
means  we  may  ask  God  to  forgive  us  just  as 
much  as  we  forgive  the  folks  who  are  not  good 
to  us,  and  make  us  feel  bad.  Doesn't  it,  pa  ?" 
and  Mary  turned  iier  loving  blue  eyes  full  upon 
her  father's  face,  and  was  silent. 

That  was  too  much  for  the  old  man.     He 
was  silent,  too,  for  a  moment ;  but  it  was  only 
a  moment.     The  tide  was  rising  within  him, 
and  soon   the   channels  of  tears,  which  had 
been  so  long  dry,  were  opened  again,  and  a 
shower    poured    down    those    wrinkled     and 
weather-beaten  cheeks,  as  he  pressed  his  dar- 
ling child  to  his  breast.    Uncle  Miah  said  no 
more,  at  that  time,  for  he  was  a  man  of  few 
words,  you  know.     But  Aunt  Sibyl   and  the 
children  knew  well  enough  what  his  thoughts 
were.     There  was  a  good  deal  of  meaning  in 
timt  thunder  shower,  coming  up,  as  it  did, 
against  the  wind,  and  almost  witliout  any  cloud. 
It  was  late  in  t^e  evening  before  the  subject 
was  broached  again.     Sally  lad  come  home, 
and  answered  all  the  questions  about  the  Hart- 
ford cousins.     The  children  were  sleepy.    One 
after  another  had  got  tired  of  talking,  and  gone 
to  bed.    The  fire,  from  sympathy,  seemed  to  be 
nodding  too.    The  old  folks  were  left  alone, 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  hearth-stone.     Uncle 
Miah  nt  and  thought  for  a  long  time.     Aunt 
Sibyl  laid  nothing.     Slie  knew  something  was 
coming  from  the  other  side  of  the  heartli ;  and 
it  came,  at  last. 


"  Wife,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I've  been  think- 
ing that  that  Mary  of  ours  is  an  angel." 
"  May  be  so,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I  tell  you,  wife,  that  child  is  an  angel." 
There  was  not  much  use  in  arguing  with 
Uncle  Miah,  after  he  had  once  made  up  his 
mind,  whatever  you  might  tliink  of  his  notions  ; 
and  so  Aunt  Sibyl  simply  said,  "  Well,  I  don^t 
know  what  to  think  of  Mary.     She  isn't  like 
otiier  children,  that's  certain."' 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  and  more 
musing,  on  both  sides  of  the  hearth,  until  Uncle 
Miah  said,  by  and  by,  "  That  liberty  pole  won't 
be  standing  to-morrow  night,  I  reckon." 

And  the  old  Democrat  reckoned  right.  He 
was  not  bad  at  figures,  by  the  way.  He  liad 
ciphered  all  through  Daboll's  Arithmetic,  and 
that  was  a  good  deal  for  one  who  was  born 
before  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  on  Blue  Hill, 
too.  The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  be- 
fore anybody  else  was  up  in  the  house,  he  was 
chopping  away  at  the  liberty  pole  in  front  of 
his  door.  Tiiere  he  was  at  work,  with  his  coat 
off,  and  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  notwithstanding 
the  Governor's  proclamation,  which  always  said 
at  the  bottom,  in  those  days,  "  all  servile  labor, 
and  vain  recreation,  on  said  day,  are  by  law 
forbidden."  The  noise  of  that  axe,  a-going  at 
that  rate,  sounded  strangely  on  the  hill.  The 
folks  on  both  sides  of  the  way  were  waked  up 
by  it,  and,  as  they  rubbed  open  their  eyes,  they 
wondered  if  it  was  not  a  dream.  Whack, 
whack,  went  the  axe,  and  by  and  by  down  went 
the  pole,  with  a  noise  like  a  small  earthquake. 
That  brought  all  the  folks  out,  in  both  houses, 
to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  What  upon  earth  does  all  that  mean  ?" 
said  Uncle  Mike,  as  he  saw  the  pole  lying  on 
the  ground,  and  the  staunch  old  Democrat  with 
the  axe  in  his  hand. 

But  there  was  no  explanation  till  after  the 
cows  were  milked,  and  breakfast  was  over. 
Then  Uncle  Miah  went  across  the  way,  and 
walked  straight  into  the  house,  where  Uncle 
Mike  and  the  family  were  still  eating  breakfast. 
People  did  not  use  to  knock  at  their  neiglibors' 
doors,  at  that  time,  on  Blue  Hill. 

"  Mike,  I've  chopped  down  that  old  Jefferson 
liberty  pole." 

"  Going  to  put  up  one  for  Jackson,  I  sup- 
po.se." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not ;  I've  got  enough  of  lib- 
erty poles." 

"  Shouldn't  wonder.  You  needn't  think  I'm 
going  to  cut  mine  down,  tiiougii." 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  3MUSE. 


287 


"  I  wasn't  thinking  about  that.  But  look 
here,  brother,  there  is  no  use  in  our  keeping 
up  this  quarrel  any  longer.  Fm  sick  of  it.  It 
began  on  our  side  of  the  way,  I  suppose ;  at 
any  rate,  I'll  do  anjnhing  to  stop  it." 

Uncle  Mike  was  taken  all  aback,  as  the 
sailors  say.  He  had  kept  on  eating  before,  or 
tried  to  do  so,  but  now  he  stopped,  dropped  his 
knife  and  fork,  and  turned  round  his  chair  from 
the  table.  Perhaps  he  was  beginning  to  think 
there  was  another  sort  of  breakfast  to  be  eaten. 
If  so,  he  was  not  much  mistaken. 

"  God  sent  an  angel  to  me  last  night." 

Was  Uncle  Miah  crazy  ?  We  thought  it 
was  likely  enough.  He  was  always  odd — poor 
man! 

"  He  did  ;  and  the  angel  told  me  how  foolish 
and  wicked  it  was  for  me  to  keep  saying  the 
Lord's  Prayer  over,  and  to  be  asking  God,  every 
night  and  morning,  to  '  forgive  us  our  tres- 
passes.' "  And  he  told  the  whole  story.  He 
had  to  stop  a  good  many  times  before  he  got 
through,  though,  for  he  wept  Hke  a  child.  Yes, 
all  unmanly  as  it  was,  he  wept.  So  did  we 
all ;  for  it  was  like  the  breaking  up  of  ice  in 
the  spring,  when  the  banks  of  the  rivers  are  too 
narrow  for  the  flood.     Few  words  were  spoken. 


as  those  brothers  shook  hands  together.  Words 
are  nothing,  at  such  a  time. 

When  the  old  lumber  waggon  across  the  way 
was  rigged  out  for  meeting,  that  morning,  and 
the  folks  had  all  crowded  in.  Uncle  Miah  drove 
straight  to  the  Presbyterian  meeting-house  ;  and 
after  he  got  home,  and  they  were  talking  about 
tlie  sermon,  he  said  he  didn't  think  the  folks 
up  there  were  so  blue,  after  all.  There  was 
an  odd  sort  of  a  thanksgiving  dinner  on  Blue 
Hill,  that  afternoon,  in  the  best  room  across  the 
way.  Our  large  table  was  lugged  over,  and 
placed  by  the  side  of  Aunt  Sibyl's,  and  the 
chicken  pies,  the  roasted  turkeys,  and  puddings, 
of  both  houses,  met  together  at  that  mammoth 
table,  and  around  it  we  all  gathered,  with  some- 
thing of  gratitude,  I  think — with  much  of  hap- 
piness, I  know. 

That  rude  mansion  always  seemed  sacred  to 
me,  after  that.  It  seemed  as  if  an  angel  dwelt 
there.  Years  have  passed.  Changes  have 
taken  place.  Those  uncles  lie  side  by  side  in 
the  grave-yard  on  the  Hill,  and  little  Mary  is 
sleeping  near  them.  I  am  no  longer  a  child. 
Yet  even  now,  there  is  scarce  a  spot  on  earth  so 
hallowed  in  my  memory  as  that  which  was 
once  the  home  of  "  our  cousins  across  the  way.** 


INVOCATION    TO    THE    MUSE, 


BY    E.    J.    EAMES. 


Wilt  thou  too  leave  me — thou,  who  wast  the  first 

And  fairest  vision  of  my  happiest  youth, — 
Who  at  my  side  the  germs  of  Poesy  nurs'd, 

And  blent  wild  fiction  with  the  hues  of  Truth ; 
Thou,  who  didst  follow  wheresoe'er  I  roam'd? 

In  the  wood-path — by  the  sunny  stream — 
By  the  red  rose  tree,  when  the  twilight "  gloam'd  "- 

Thou  wert  my  Inspiration,  and  my  dream. 
Oh  !  angel  of  the  faded  year !  I  need 

The  Glory  of  thy  Presence  once,  once  more, 
And  on  thy  beauteous  forehead  fain  would  read 

The  Prophecy  the  Sibyl  wrote  of  yore. 
I  do  not  ask  thy  stay  for  long,  sweet  Muse — 
Oh,  then  do  not  tliis  last  request  refuse ! 


THE    SAILOR'S   WIDOW 


BY    MISS    H.    F.    GOULD. 


I. 

Ah  !  sad  the  morn  to  me ; 

Though  bright  are  earth  and  sky; 
And  on  the  smiling  sea 

T  look  with  streaming  eye ! 
Where  yonder  line,  so  pale, 

Scarce  parts  the  wave  and  air, 
I  watched  his  flying  sail, 
Till  lost  to  vision  there. 
Passing  away,  in  distance  far, 
It  vanished  like  a  setting  star ! 
My  day-star,  once,  it  neared  the  shore; 
But  now  'twas  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 

II. 
To  hear  my  orphans  call  „' '■ 

Their  father's  name  in  vain, 
Brings  gloom  that's  like  a  pall, 

And  tears,  that  shower  like  rain. 
They  ask,  "  Why  don't  he  come 

His  little  ones  to  take  ?" 
I  sit,  with  sorrow  dumb. 

And  feel  my  heart-strings  break. 
Wild  raged  the  storm  that  dismal  night; — 
It  plucked  him  from  our  mortal  sight ! 
His  spirit  up  to  God  it  gave ; 
While  ocean  yawned,  his  restless  grave. 

m. 
My  light  of  life  is  past ; 

And  from  that  fatal  hour, 
A  shade  of  death  is  cast 
.    On  each  fair  earthly  flower. 
Oh !  whither  can  I  go, — 
I  dare  not  look  above, 
Nor  yon  cold  flood  below, — 
For  my  departed  love  ? 
Just  Heaven  would  spurn  my  envious  prayer; 
In  ocean's  cave  dwells  dark  Despair; 
And,  O  thou  sea !  thou  hungry  sea ! 
A  daily  death  I  die  by  thee! 


Fiom  H  C  CoTtculd^" 


i  I:  tfr^rarcd  by  i>o  B  Ellis 


T  !H!  E     ©  E  ?  A  1  T  2;  1  E . 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 


289 


A  iPASSAdig  urn  TmiE  Mwi^  ©IF  A  wwt^mmm. 


BELLA     H N. 


I  WAS  summoned,  on  the  last  day  of  the  win- 
ter of  18 — ,  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  H n,  a 

wealthy  widow  lady,  who  resided  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  village.  At  the  decease  of  her 
husband,  ten  years  before,  she  had  been  left 
with  a  large  inheritance,  and  the  care  of  hex 
two  daughters,  the  one  twelve,  and  the  other 
but  eight  years  of  age.  Still  young  herself, 
and  of  rather  uncommon  beauty,  it  was  uni- 
versally thought  at  the  time,  that  when  the 
season  of  her  mourning  should  be  over,  she 
would  at  once  launch  out  upon  the  world  to 
display  and  enjoy  the  various  charms  of  which 
she  was  the  possessor.  It  would  not  have 
been  strange,  in  many  another  woman,  situ- 
ated as  she  was,  had  she  taken  that  course. 
It  might  have  been  perfectly  natural.  But 
the  community  were  doomed  to  be  disap- 
pointed. The  days  of  her  mourning  endured 
longer  than  had  been  anticipated.  Bound  to 
her  husband  during  his  life  with  a  true  affec- 
tion, she  did  not  bury  her  love  in  the  grave 
with  him,  but  clinging  to  his  memory  with  a 
faithful  heart,  she  devoted  herself  to  the  care  and 
education  of  her  children,  as  a  duty  she  owed 
not  only  to  them,  but  to  him  who  was  gone. 
Society  she  did  not  refuse  nor  withdraw  herself 
from,  but  she  avoided  all  display,  and  was  espe- 
cially active  in  schemes  of  benevolence.  This 
was,  perhaps,  to  be  attributed,  in  part  at  least, 
to  the  principles  and  habits  acquired  in  early 
life,  for  she  had  been  brought  up  in  an  humble 
sphere,  and  in  the  simple  manners  of  a  country 
village,  and  was  naturally  of  a  quiet  and  sedate 
mind  ;  so  that,  when  she  was  married  to  the 

wealthy  Mr.  H n,  although  externally  she 

conformed  to  the  more  fashionable  and  showy 
walk  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  move,  she 
still  retained  the  simplicity  of  her  former 
habits,  at  home.  Left,  by  his  death,  without 
any  bonds  to  hold  her  to  her  then  mode  of  life, 
and  having  the  interests  of  her  growing  girls 


near  her  heart,  and  fearing  the  influence  upon 
their  young  minds  of  the  example  of  only 
fashionable  society,  she  returned  at  once  to  her 
primitive  mode  of  life. 

Ten  years  had  passed  away,  and  Grace  and 

Bella  H n   had   become   beautiful   young 

women.  Educated  under  the  eye  of  a  tender 
and  solicitous  mother,  they  were  as  near  as 
human  frailty  can  approach  what  young  wo- 
men ought  to  be  at  that  age  in  life.  But  they 
were  not  alike  beautiful  and  lovely.  Their 
forms,  their  features,  or  their  minds  were  not 
cast  in  the  same  mould,  nor  made  after  the 
same  pattern.  Grace — the  elder  of  the  two — 
was  tall,  dark-haired  and  dark-eyed.  To  one 
unacquainted  with  her  she  seemed  haughty. 
But  she  was  not.  The  impression  came  from 
her  noble  and  dignified  appearance  and  man- 
ners. Isabella — or,  as  she  was  always  called» 
Bella — was  fairy-like  in  form,  and  had  laugh- 
ing blue  eyes  and  light  hair,  and  was  altogether 
one  of  the  very  sunniest  beings  I  ever  beheld. 
Always  lively  and  gay,  she  presented  a  striking 
contrast  with  her  more  sedate  and  queen-hke 
sister.  Yet,  to  a  mother's  heart,  they  were 
alike  lovely,  and  the  three  were  bound  together 
by  the  fondest  and  dearest  ties.  Such  were 
they  at  the  date  of  my  narrative.  I  copy  froni 
my  diary. 

February  2dth,  18—.     *     *      *      *     *    * 

Mrs.  H. n  met  me  at  the  door  and  led  me 

into  the  parlor,  and  sat,  for  a  few  moments,  in 
a  paroxysm  of  irresistible  grief.  I  saw  at  once 
that  some  terrible  affliction  had  fallen  upon  her, 
and  did  not  interrupt  her  tears,  till  I  saw  that, 
she  was  becoming  more  composed.  I  then  in- 
quired as  to  the  cause  of  my  being  sent  fur. 

•'Bella — my  poor  Bella" — and  she  again 
gave  way  to  a  flood  of  anguish. 

I  took  a  seat  by  her  side  and  endeavored  to 
calm  her  excitement,  but  it  was  some  time  lie- 
fore  I  could  succeed.     I  then  besought  her  to^ 


290 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 


tell  me  calmly  the  cause  of  her  distress.  It 
required  but  few  words  to  make  me  acquainted 
with  all,  but  those  few  words  were  broken  with 
Bobs  and  tears. 

Alas !  that  we  sliould  be  always  so  ready  to 
enshrine  idols  in  our  innermost  heart,  and  bow 
down  and  worship  them,  only  to  see  them  torn 
down  and  broken,  and  ground  to  dust  before 
our  eyes.  A  child — a  husband — a  wife — a 
lover — pleasure — ambition — gold,  the  sordidest 
of  all  sordid  idols — some  one  of  these  finds  an 
altar  and  a  worshipper  in  every  bosom.  It  is 
not  so  strange  that  natural  affection  should 
raise  up  its  false  worship  to  the  objects  of  its 
love,  as  that  the  meaner  propensities — vain 
phantoms  without  form  or  substance — mere 
images  of  the  mind's  making — should  find  a 
place  in  the  real,  for  the  worship  of  their 
shadowy  unrealities.  Yet  all  have  their  hold 
upon  the  affections,  and  one  will  pursue  the 
unreal  shadow  with  all  the  zeal  of  another  in 
chase  of  the  more  substantial  object,  as  if  the 
things  of  this  momentary  life  were  worth  a 
single  instant's  harboring  in  an  immortal  mind 
— a  mind  destined  to  breathe  the  air  of  heaven, 
and  drink  in  infinite  and  unfading  joy  and  hap- 
piness there.  These  idols  are  all  shadows, 
creatures  of  our  own  making,  and  soon  or  late 
will  be  destroyed.  Why  not,  then,  cast  tliem 
out  at  once — trample  them  down  in  the  dust, 
and  learn  to  despise  them  as  such  ;  and,  while 
natural  affection  rejoices  in  its  objects  as  the 
blessed  boon  of  a  beneficent  Father,  hold  them 
all  subject  to  His  will,  and  resign  them  cheer- 
fully when  He  says.  Give  them  back  to  me ! 
We  are  not  conscious  of  the  hold  they  gain 
upon  our  hearts  till  they  are  taken  away,  and 
then  we  first  learn  how  deep  has  been  our 
idolatry. 

I  learned  from  Mrs.  H n,  that  her  daugh- 
ter Bella  had  been  for  some  few  months  under 

engagement  of  marriage  to  Ernest  L e,  a 

young  physician,  who  had  formerly  been  a  stu- 
dent in  my  office.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
sterling  character,  and  in  all  respects  worthy 
the  love  of  any  woman,  although  he  was  in 
but  moderate  circumstances,  while  Bella  would 
be  very  rich.     But  this  was,  in  the  mind  of 

Mrs.  H n,  no  hindrance  to  be  thrown  in  the 

way  of  her  daughter's  happiness.  Bella  loved 
liim.  And  why  should  she  not?  A  more 
noble  and  whole-hearted  man  never  won  a 
woman's  love.  But  they  were  both  young,  and 
when  EmeHt  had  finished  his  studies  as  my 
pupil,  Mr«.  H n  proposed  that  he  should  go 


to  Paris,  and  spend  a  year  there  in  the  schools 
and  hospitals,  to  perfect  his  education.  With  a 
generosity,  eminently  characteristic  of  her,  she 
offered  to  defray  all  his  expenses,  and  he  ac- 
cepted the  proposal  as  readily  as  it  was  made. 
This  was  the  first  I  knew  of  these  matters. 
He  took  his  departure  with  joyful  anticipa- 
tions of  returning,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  with 
improved  mind,  to  marry  Bella,  and  embark  in 
his  professional  career.  All  was  hope,  and 
neither  of  them  was  inclined  to  yield  to  any 
forebodings  of  evil. 

Two  months  passed  away,  and  no  letters 
were  received,  and  nothing  had  been  heard 
from  him.  Another  passed,  and  still  no 
news.  A  gloomy  cloud  seemed  to  be  settling 
down  upon  the  bright  spirit  of  Bella.  She 
wrote  to  the  agents  of  the  vessel  in  which 
Ernest  had  sailed,  but  they  had  not  heard  from 
her,  yet  they  hoped  that  all  was  well.  The 
poor  girl  was  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  The 
happy  smile  had  deserted  her  lip,  and  she  be- 
came gloomy  and  thoughtful.  She  would  sit 
for  hours  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hand, 
apparently  unconscious  of  all  that  was  going 
on  around  her.  Three  days  since,  a  letter  was 
received  from  the  agents,  saying  that  they  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  the  vessel's  safety,  and 
were  compelled  to  fear  that  she  had  been  lost. 

In  spite  of  all  the  fears  of  this  kind  which  had 
harassed  the  heart  of  Bella  for  some  time,  this 
news  fell  upon  her  with  awful  severity.  There 
had  been  a  little  hope  till  now ;  but  that  was 
past.  She  sunk  under  the  blow.  The  first  day 
she  spent  in  tears,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
room,  and  the  kind  mother  did  not  interfere, 
thinking  this  natural  burst  of  grief  would  pass 
away  and  leave  her  more  calm.  But  the  fol- 
lowing night  she  spent  also  in  sleepless  grief; 
and  from  that  time  no  words  of  comfort  had 
any  effect  upon  her.  She  had  become  calm,  to 
be  sure,  but  the  smile  had  gone,  and  the  bright 
hue  from  her  cheek,  and  she  talked  much  to 

herself;  and  Mrs.  II n  was  fearful  that  her 

mind  was  becoming  disordered.  She  had  sent 
for  me  that  I  might  see  her,  and  to  know  my 
opinion. 

I  found  Bella  in  her  room ;  she  was  reclining 
on  the  sofa,  with  an  air  of  deep  and  thoughtful 
melancholy  in  her  face.  She  looked  up  as  I 
entered  the  room,  but  did  not  seem  surprised  to 
see  me,  although  she  did  not  know  that  I  had 
been  sent  for.  I  endeavored  to  draw  her  into 
conversation ;  but  though  she  woul^,  answer 
my  questions,  sbo  would  instantly  relapse  into 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 


291 


her  listless  mood.  I  referred  to  her  loss  in  as 
kind  and  cautious  a  way  as  I  could,  and  for  a 
moment  she  was  aroused. 

"Oh!  it  is  a  terrible  thing,  Doctor,"  she 
said,  "  and  came  upon  us  so  suddenly.  He 
was  so  noble  and  true-hearted  ;  and  to  be  taken 
away  thus,  when  all  the  world  was  looking  so 
bright  to  him  !  But  we  shall  not  be  separated 
long." 

"No — no,  Bella,"  said  I,  "you  must  not 
talk  so." 

"  It  is  so,  Doctor ;  my  heart  tells  me  it  is  so. 
And  I  would  not  live  longer.  You  do  not 
know  how  dark  the  world  looks  to. me  now. 
And  I  believe  mother  and  Grace  feel  it  almost 
as  much  as  I.  And  why  should  they  not  ?  for 
Ernest  was  very  dear  to  all  of  us." 

Although  such  was  the  tenor  of  all  she  said 
to  m(*  yet  I  could  not  regard  it  as  anything 
more  than  the  effect  of  the  shock,  which  time 
would  alleviate ;  and  so  I  told  her  mother,  be- 
fore I  left. 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  H n, 

"  but  I  cannot  help  fearing  it  will  not." 
******         * 

April  3. — How  little  the  world  knows  of  the 
misery  that  lies  cankering  in  its  own  bosom. 
We  see  around  us,  every  day,  the  denizens  of 
want,  shrouded  in  rags  and  fdth,  and  we  hear 
of  the  doings  of  famine,  and  disease,  and  pes- 
tilence in  other  places  ;  but  all  this  has  become 
a  matter  of  course  with  us.  But  in  the  man- 
sions of  wealth,  in  their  gorgeous  panoply,  that 
seems  to  shut  out  the  very  thought  of  care  and 
wretchedness,  and  where  the  children  of  pov- 
erty stop  as  they  pass,  and  gaze,  and  wonder 
if  the  indwellers  know  what  want  is — in  such 
places  misery  lies  hid,  but  is  none  the  less  real. 
Down  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  sufferer,  be- 
neath a  brow  all  bright  and  cheerful,  beats  often 
a  poor  heart,  rent,  and  torn,  and  crushed  with 
consuming  sorrow.  No  class,  nor  age,  nor 
condition  is  exempt.  If  this  world  were  all 
smiles  and  happiness,  we  should  forget,  ingrates 
that  we  are,  to  look  beyond. 

More  than  a  month  has  passed  since  I  was 
called  to  see  Bella  j  and  although  the  exter- 
nal signs  of  her  grief  have  become  less  mani- 
fest— perhaps  from  our  habit  of  seeing  them — 
yet  the  smile  has  never  visited  her  face  again. 

"  O  Doctor,  how  I  wish  it  had  been  me," 
said  her  sister  Grace  to  me,  one  day,  as  she 
followed  me  to  the  door. 

"  Why  so,  my  dear  Grace  ?"'  I  asked.  "  Do 
ycu  think  you  could  have  borne  it  belter  ?" 


"  Perhaps  not,"  she  replied,  "  but  then  the 
others  would  not  have  felt  it  so.  It  is  so  sad 
to  see  Bella,  once  so  gay.  and  the  life  of  the 
house,  now  so  changed.  It  throws  a  gloom 
over  us  all.  Had  I  suffered  just  as  much,  it 
would  have  fallen  upon  others  with  less  severi- 
ty. W^e  did  not  know  her  before,  Doctor,  nor 
how  dear  she  is  to  us." 

"  Let  us  take  courage,  Grace,  and  trust  in 
God." 

Bella's  mind  does  not  seem  to  have  suffered 
any  in  its  powers,  but  her  health  is  already 
beginning  to  give  way ;  and  she  still  talks  of 
the  certainty  that  she  shall  soon  meet  Ernest 
again.  Her  heart  was  early  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  religion  ;  and  now  she  has  mingled 
with  her  hopes  of  a  future  life,  the  idea  of  being 
there  united,  in  communion  at  least,  with  him 
she  has  lost.  She  will  talk  of  nothing  else.  I 
have  advised  the  family  to  try  change  of  scene, 

and  to-morrow  Mrs.  H n  is  to  set  out  on  a 

journey  in  her  own  carriage,  to  try  its  effects 
upon  her  daughter.  God  grant  it  may  h^p  to 
wile  away  her  mind  from  its  perpetual  gloom. 

Mrs.  H n  is  still  building  a  hope  for  the 

future,  on  the  idea  that  the  vessel  is  not  lost, 
and  that  some  accident  has  driven  her  out  of 
her  course,  and  that  they  shall  yet  hear  from 
Ernest  that  he  is  alive.  But  our  dear  patient 
cannot  be  induced  to  rely  upon  such  possibili- 
ties.    They  raise  no  hope  in  her  mind. 

April  Atli. — She  has  started  this  morning. 
The  preparation,  though  made  with  as  much 
ostentation  as  possible,  made  no  impression 
upon  her.  In  some  things  she  herself  assisted, 
but  with  a  sort  of  mechanical  air  that  showed 
her  utter  indifference.  I  was  with  them  to  the 
last. 

"  I  appreciate,  deeply,  all  your  kindness 
and  sympathy.  Doctor,"  said  Bella,  as  I  sat  by 
her  while  waiting  for  the  carriage  ;  "  and  I 
wish,  for  your  sake,  and  mother's,  and  Grace's, 
that  it  may  be  of  service  to  me.  But  I  fear 
not.  I  cannot  arouse  myself.  There  is  such 
a  constant  weight  here,  on  my  heart,  that 
I  struggle  in  vain  to  throw  off.  I  wish  I 
could,  for  I  am  grieved  at  the  constant  misery 
I  see  around  me,  and  of  which  I  am  the  cause." 
"  Yet,  Bella,  will  you  not,  for  our  sakes,  con- 
tinue to  make  the  effort  ?  Think  less  of  your- 
self, and  let  your  heart  be  open  to  the  influences 
of  the  scenes  through  which  you  pass." 

"  I  will,  indeed,  try.  Doctor.  I  am  trying 
ail  the  time.  But  should  I  not  come  back 
again  — — " 


292 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 


"  No,  Bella — none  of  that.  Let  it  be  one 
of  your  most  constant  efforts  to  keep  such 
thoughts  out  of  your  mind.  Come  back !  to  be 
sure  you  will,  my  dear  girl,  and  I  hope  gladden 
all  our  hearts  again.  But  here  is  the  carriage 
all  ready.     Now,  good  bye.    God  be  with  you." 

I  saw  a  tear  on  her  cheek  as  I  seated  her  in 
tlic  carriage,  and  I  took  it  for  a  good  omen. 

O  love !  love !  no  wonder  that  the  ancients 
deified  thee,  and  gave  thee  a  quiver  and  a  bow. 
Thou  art  the  ruler  of  all  hearts.  Yet  how  dif- 
ferent the  wounds  thine  arrows  make.  To  the 
young  lover,  with  his  fond  one  folded  to  his 
bosom,  all  is  joy.  Clouds  may  gather  round 
them  and  darken  their  path,  but  the  clouds 
throw  no  shadow  on  their  hearts.  All  is  bright 
to  them.  The  heaviest  ills  of  life  look  light 
and  easy  to  be  borne.  Care  knocks  at  their 
door  in  vain.  Poverty  is  but  the  name  of  an 
unreal  fear.  And  borne  up  by  unfading  mutual 
love,  they  wed,  and  children  cluster  round 
them — the  blossoms  and  fruits  of  their  affec- 
tion— and  what  know  they  of  sorrow  ?  Labor  ! 
it  is  the  zest  of  home's  joys.  Absence !  it  is 
only  the  surety  and  pledge  of  a  new  happiness 
when  the  meeting  time  comes,  and  the  loved 
ones  shall  gather  to  his  bosom,  and  make  his 
heart  swell  with  thankfulness  and  honest 
pride.  Yet  some,  with  hearts  as  passionless  as 
the  lichen  on  the  dry  rock,  sneer  at  the  pas- 
sion, and  live  unloving  and  die  unloved.  Mis- 
erable men ! 

But  turn  the  picture — for  turn  it  we  must. 
Let  death  with  his  unsparing  hand  tear  them 
asunder — or,  worse,  far  worse,  let  coldness,  and 
suspicion,  and  discord,  and  hate — yes,  hate — 
show  their  ugly  forms  and  poison  all  the  pure  and 
holy  feelings  which  were  growing  up  in  those 
breasts  ;  and,  like  a  solitary  tree  in  the  midst 
of  the  desert,  upon  which  the  thunderbolt  has 
fallen  and  blasted  its  roots,  and  drank  up  its 
eap,  and  withered  its  leaves,  leaving  only  a 
seared  trunk  and  gnarled  limbs  as  the  witness 
of  the  lighlninf/s  power  and  wrath — so  will  be 
that  lone  and  desolate  spirit,  blighted,  and 
crushed,  and  down-trodden — the  world,  a  desert 
of  human  hearts.  But  I  do  not  love  to  look 
upon  this  side. 

*        *        *        <i>        *        *         * 

T]\e  family  of  Mrs.  II n  were  absent 

several  tnonths.  I  received  frequent  letters 
from  them  in  relatioti  to  Bella,  and  once  she 
wrote  me  herself.  Her  bodily  health  was  im- 
proved, but  her  mind  was  still  sunk  in  gloom. 

**  No,  Doctor,"  she  wrote,  "  the  bloom  may 


come  back  to  my  faded  cheek,  but  the  green- 
ness and  joy  to  my  heart — never.  It  is  crush- 
ed and  withered.  Nothing  moves  me.  I  stand 
in  the  midst  of  scenes  that  a  few  months  since 
would  have  made  my  heart  leap  to  enjoy  their 
beauty.  I  see  their  charms.  I  hear  others 
speak  of  them  in  the  most  glowing  language — 
but  my  poor  heart  lies  still,  and  passionless,  and 
cold  in  the  midst  of  all.  I  struggle  against  it ; 
1  make  efforts  to  break  my  chains  ;  but  I  sink 
back  powerless  as  a  bird  with  broken  wing 
There  is  something  wanting — a  terrible  void. 
*  *  *  *  Why  is  it?  They  love  me — 
they  seem  to  idolize  me.  Yet,  though  I  wish 
earnestly,  ardently  to  show  that  I  am  deeply 
sensible  of  their  love — though  I  tell  them  so, 
as  I  now  tell  you,  there  is  no  outward  exhibi- 
tion of  it.  I  see  and  feel  that  I  am  cold  as  tlie 
marble  statue.  Why  is  it  ?  It  is  not  that  the 
principle  of  true  affection  is  gone  from  me,  for 
that  I  feel  is  not  so.  Is  it  because  the  passion 
lies  in  the  ocean  grave  with  Ernest  ?  I  be- 
lieve that  is  the  true  cause. 

«  *  *  *  J  fegi  that  I  have  done  wrong  in 
yielding,  as  I  have,  to  the  influence  of  my  feel- 
ings. I  have  duties  to  perform — a  destiny  to 
fulfil ;  and  now  I  am  strengthening  myself  for 
the  work.  I  have  told  this  to  mother,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  a  satisfaction  to  her.  Perhaps  on 
this  she  builds  a  new  hope  of  my  recovery. 
And  why  deny  to  her  even  such  a  small  com- 
fort? I  could  hope  for  her  sake  that  such  might 
be  the  case.  Dear  Grace  is  my  guardian  angel, 
and  my  heart  weeps  bitter  tears,  when  I  think 
how  ungrateful  I  must  seem  to  them." 

They  returned.  There  was  a  remarkable 
change  in  the  appearance  of  Bella.  The  smile 
was  not  there,  but  she  was  more  beautiful  than 
before.  It  was  the  beauty  of  the  mature  wo- 
man— matured  suddenly  and  by  sorrow,  and 
with  a  shade  of  sadne.ss  that  made  her  doubly 
interesting.  And  the  others  seemed  to  have 
become,  in  a  measure,  reconciled  to  the  change 
in  her.  She  became  an  active  woman  in  deeds 
of  benevolence,  and  all  who  loved  her  before, 
loved  her  far  more  now,  though  they  mourned 
for  the  cheerfulness  and  gayety  which  she 
had  buried  in  the  grave  of  Ernest. 

Bella  ceased  to  be  my  patient.  I  met  her 
often  at  the  bedside  of  the  sick,  where  she 
came  like  a  ministering  angel,  and  soothed  the 
anguish  of  disease  by  her  gentle,  and  calm, 
and  aflfectionate  kindness.  And  in  this  way 
more  than  a  year  passed  by.  I  was  one  even- 
ing called  to  the  house  by  some  trifling  illness 


TRUST  NOT. 


293 


of  her  mother,  and  after  I  had  prescribed  for 
her,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  parlor  with  the 
young  ladies.  I  talked  with  Grace  for  some 
time,  for  Bella  rarely  joined  in  the  convei"sa- 
tion.  At  length  she  left  her  seat  and  went 
to  the  window.  It  was  an  evening  of  great 
beauty,  and  the  fiiK  moon,  just  risen  in  fi-ont 
of  the  house,  poured  its  full  light  upon  the 
entrance,  and  the  broad  gravel  walk  leading 
up  to  the  door.  I  heard  tlie  latch  of  the  gate 
as  some  one  entered,  and  suffered  it  to  swing 
back.  An  instant  afterwards  we  were  startled 
by  hearing  Bella  exclaim,  with  a  peculiar  tone, 
♦'  Doctor !  Grace  !"  and,  springing  to  my  feet, 
I  saw  her  stand  with  both  hands  pressed  con- 
vulsively to  her  breast,  and  her  eyes  strained 
eagerly  towards  some  object  out  of  the  win- 
dow. I  stepped  quickly  to  her  side,  and  re- 
ceived her  in  my  arms  as  she  fainted.  But  I 
had  seen  the  cause  of  her  distress.  A  gen- 
tleman was  approaching,  and  Grace  at  that 
instant  exclaimed,  "  It  is  he — it  is  Ernest !" 

I  carried  Bella  hastily  into  the  adjoining 
room,  and  laid  her  upon  the  sofa,  wh'de  Grace 
ran  to  the  door  to  admit  the  visitor,  and  lead- 


ing him  into  the  parlor,  came  to  us  just  as  our 
patient  was  murmuring — 

"  O  !  I  had  such  a  dream,  Grace,"  she  said, 
as  she  opened  her  eyes.  "  I  thought  he  had 
come  back,  and " 

"  It  was  no  dream,  dear  Bella,"  said  Grace. 
"  It  is  no  dream.  He  is  here — here  in  the 
house." 

As  I  am  not  writing  romances,  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  the  effect  of  his  sudden 
an-ival.  His  story  was  soon  told.  The  ship 
in  which  he  had  sailed  had  been  lost  at  sea. 
The  crew  deserted  her  in  the  boats,  with  as 
many  as  they  could  caiTy.  After  tossing  about 
for  several  days,  the  boat  in  which  was  Ernest, 
had  been  taken  up  by  a  vessel  bound  for  the 
East  Indies.  Of  course  he  went  along,  and 
returned  by  the  first  opportunity.  No  chance 
of  ever  sending  a  letter  had  occurred,  which 
could  give  notice  of  his  safety  before  his  own 
return.  He  brought  the  news  himself,  and 
with  it  the  joys  of  other  days.  Bella  has 
never  regained  the  same  smile  she  wore  be- 
fore ;  but  cheerfulness  and  peace  have  visited 
her  again. 


TISiGrSIP    H(D^, 


Trttst  not,  trust  not ; 
The  world  is  full  of  change  : 
Though  Fortune  smile,  her  frown  erewhile 
May  warmest  friends  estrange : 
Then  trust  not 

Trust  not,  trust  not ; 
The  sun  at  rosy  mom, 
With  gladsome  light,  may  promise  bright, 
Yet  herald  cloud  and  storm  : 
Then  trust  not 

Trust  not,  trust  not 
The  smooth  and  placid  sea  ; 
Its  rocks  lie  deep,  and  tempests  sleep, 
To  wreck  thy  bark  and  thee ; 
Then  trust  not 


Trust  not,  trust  not 
The  love  that  gold  may  buy ; 
In  poverty  'twill  turn  from  thee, 
With  cold  and  altered  eye : 
Then  trust  not 

Trust  not,  trust  not 
To  aught  beneath  the  skies ; 
Earth's  promised  joys  are  gilded  toys, 
To  cheat  the  longing  eyes  ; 
Then  trust  riot 

Trust  not,  trust  not. 
But  they — the  tried  and  true, 
And  then  a  pang,  from  falsehood's  fang. 
Thy  heart  shall  never  rue : 
Then  trust  not 


294 


SKETCHES    OF    WESTERN    LIFE. 


SEl'IPdJIEIlSS   ©IF  WliSflglEM  IIjHIFI, 


B7    MRS.    E.    MARIA    SHELDON. 


NE W    SA  RATOGA 


About  two  years  after  the  paper-city  mania, 
in  this  Wolverine  State,  being  on  a  visit  to  a 

relative,  in  the  village  of  D ,  it  was  one  day 

proposed  that  we  should  take  an  excursion  on 
horseback,  to  Prospect  Hill,  about  seven  miles 
distant.  The  proposal  was  hailed  with  pleas- 
ure by  us  all,  and  the  next  day  fixed  upon  for 
the  ride. 

The  morning  proved  cloudy,  and  of  six 
couples,  all  except  three  individuals  gave  up 
the  project  from  fear  of  a  storm . 

"  No,  indeed,  we  won't  give  up,  will  we  ?" 

said  Helen  N ,  a  fine,  spirited  young  lady, 

to  Mr.  H ,  my  relative,  who  was  preparing 

to  accompany  us. 

"  I  don't  anticipate  a  storm,"  he  replied,  "  and 
as  this  will  be  the  last  opportunity  we  shall 
have  before  Cousin  leaves  us,  I  am  anxious  to 
go.  We  will  show  Emily  all  the  beauties  of 
the  hill,  then  go  to  New  Saratoga,  and  dine  at 
theWhite  Cottage,"  he  added  with  a  quiet  smile. 

New  Saratoga !  thought  I ;  I  never  heard  of 
that  place  before,  and  that  smile  has  meaning 
in  it.  But  I  was  not  Yankee  enough  to  ask 
questions,  and  too  much  Wolverine  to  be  taken 
by  surprise. 

Up  and  away  !  we  were  soon  riding  leisurely 
through  the  village,  greeted  with  a  polite  bow 
now  and  then,  from  an  acquaintance,  and  an 
ominous  shake  of  the  head  from  one  and  another 
of  the  more  judicious  part  of  our  party,  who 
chose  to  stay  at  home. 

The  village  passed,  we  resolved  to  try  the 
mettle  of  our  "  bonnie  steeds,"  and  away  we 
galloped  over  the  undulating  "  openings,"  till 
fatigue  sobered  us,  and  an  easy  pace  gave  us 
opportunity  to  observe  scenery,  and  enjoy  the 
reading  of  Nature's  book. 

The  season  was  early  spring-time.  The 
very  fir^t  tiny  blossoms  were  peeping  up  among 
the  dry  loaves ;  here  and  there,  in  the  valleys, 
were  patches  of  green ;  but  the  old  oaks  spread 
oat  their  huge   arms  above  us,  leafless  and 


apparently  dead,  and  only  now  and  then  could 
we  see  the  least  vestige  of  green  beneath  their 
broad  shadows.  All  nature  seemed  in  a  "  sweet- 
ly melancholy  mood."  The  air  was  soft  and 
warm,  but  there  was  not  wind  enough  astir  to 
sway  the  smoke  that  rose  lazily  from  the  cabins 
seen  at  intervals  by  the  wayside.  The  clouds, 
that  hung  heavily  over  all  tlie  face  of  the  heav- 
ens, seemed  coming  down  to  rest  on  the  tree- 
tops.  Not  a  robin's  note  was  heard,  and  the 
squirrels  running  across  the  road,  or  looking 
down  saucily  from  some  overhanging  limb,  did 
not  chatter  as  they  were  wont.  Our  own  little 
cavalcade  gradually  partook  of  nature's  pen- 
siveness :  gleeful  sallies  and  the  merry  ringing 
laugh  subsided  into  sober  remark,  then  a  long 
silence  succeeded,  and  each  drank  into  the 
spirit  the  purifying  gladness  of  pleasant  reflec- 
tions. 

Beautiful,  most  beautiful,  at  any  season,  is 
the  scenery  on  our  "  heavy-timbered  oak  open- 
ings,"— for  this  is  the  term  used  for  those  sec- 
tions of  country  where  the  timber  is  mostly 
large,  sturdy  oaks,  thickly  set,  but  without 
underbrush.  The  surface  of  the  land  is  as  if 
it  had  once  been  an  ocean,  and  the  Almighty 
fiat  had  changed  it  to  earth  while  its  billows 
were  rolling.  Thus,  for  miles  you  will  see  a 
succession  of  billowy  hills  and  intervening 
valleys  covered  with  these  forest  monarchs. 
Can  such  scenery  be  otherwise  than  beautiful  7 

On,  on  we  rode  over  these  hills  and  valleys 
in  silence,  but  not  in  gloom,  till  another  road 
intersecting  ours  woke  us  from  our  day-dream. 

"  Asleep !    horses  and  all,"   exclaimed  Mr. 

H .     "  Come,    Speedwell,  you  must  step 

quicker,  or  we  won't  get  to  the  '  White  Cot- 
tage' in  time  to  see  the  boarders." 

I  glanced  at  Helen,  and  the  would-be  grave 
expression  of  her  countenance  was  enough. 

"  We  will  take  this  road,  girls,"  said  Mr. 

H ,  reining  his  horse  to  tlie  right,  "  and 

then  wo  can  ride  to  the  top  of  the  hill." 


SKETCHES    OF    WESTERN    LIFE. 


295 


I  began  to  think  «  Prospect  Hill,"  "  White 
Cottage,"  and  all,  would  prove  to  be  a  hoax, 
from  the  mischievous  looks 'of  my  companions  ; 
but  determined  to  be  surprised  at  nothing,  and 
to  enjoy  all  I  could  find  worth  enjoying,  I  rode 
on  without  remark. 

"  Away,  away !"  shouted  Mr.  H ,  spur- 
ring his  horse  into  a  gallop.  In  a  moment  we 
were  all  bounding  over  the  ground  at  full 
speed.  The  aspect  of  the  country  began  to 
change  ;  it  was  lower  and  more  level ;  beech, 
maple  and  elm  almost  displaced  the  oak,  and 
the  thickly-set  black  ash  in  the  distance  be- 
tokened our  approach  to  a  larger  stream  than 
the  brooklets  we  had  crossed.  Presently  huge 
saw-logs  appeared,  scattered  by  the  wayside, 
and  a  little  further  on,  it  would  have  required 
a  skillful  hand  to  steer  a  carriage  through  such 
straits. 

"  Heigh  ho !  we  can't  gallop  here,"  said  Helen 
as  we  walked  our  horses, "  Indian  file,"  through 
this  scarcely  more  than  footpath. 

"  I  should  think  we  must  be  near  your  famous 
city,  from  appearances,"  I  remarked  to  Mr. 
H ;  "  they  seem  to  be  making  large  build- 
ing preparations." 

"  New  Saratoga  is  about  a  mile  from  here," 
he  replied,  and  again  that  smile. 

"  There  is  one  of  the  seven  lakes,  that  I  told 
you  we  could  sec  from  the  top  of  the  hill,"  ob- 
served Mr.  H ,  pointing  with  his  whip  to  the 

right,  "  and  this  river  just  below  is  its  outlet." 

Yes ;  there  lay  the  lake,  a  broad,  beautiful 
sheet  of  silver,  encircled  by  tall  forest-guards, 
but  it  seemed  scarcely  possible  that  this  rapid 
river  could  be  the  outgushing  of  waters,  which 
were  there  so  placid  and  still.  A  little  further 
on  was  the  uncouth,  noisy  saw-mill,  with  its 
usual  medley  of  boards,  planks,  slabs,  &c. 

«  To  the  left,  to  the  left,"  shouted  Mr.  H 

to  Helen,  who,  having  emerged  from  the  mill- 
yard,  was  riding  rapidly  toward  the  river. 

"I  will  lead  the  way  presently,"  he  said,  as 
we  wheeled  off  into  the  dense  forest 

"  Look  out  for  veils  and  plumes,"  was  our 
next  much-needed  advice.  "  This  footpath  leads 
directly  to  the  top  of  Prospect  Hill,  ladies," 

added  Mr.  H ,  with  the  most  polite  bow 

imaginable. 

We  soon  began  to  ascend  a  gentle  elevation, 
60  gentle  at  first  that  it  was  scarcely  percepti- 
ble, our  pathway  winding  among  the  trees, 
and  the  horses,  now  and  then,  treading  on  a 
cluster  of  spring  blossoms  which  we  would 
gladly  have  saved  from  such  destruction.    A 


few  moments'  ride,  and  the  ascent  became  more 
steep. 

"Hold  a  tight  rein  and  look  well  to  your- 
selves ;  if  the  horses  falter  don't  spare  the  whip," 

said  Mr.  H .    "  Excelsior  1  away,  away  !" 

he  shouted,  and  dashed  on  up  the  ascent. 

"  Excelsior  !  Excelsior .'"  echoed  through 
the  wood,  and  our  own  "  bonnie  steeds  "  were 
not  far  in  the  rear.  Up,  up  we  went,  and  still 
above  us  rose  the  hill,  and  the  trees  seemed 
climbing  higher  and  higher  above  their  fellows. 
"  Excelsior"  rang  again  and  again  through  the 
forest.  Our  panting  horses  scrambled  on  un- 
used to  such  steeps,  till,  at  last,  we  reached  the 
summit. 

"  Here  we  are,"  is  our  simultaneous  excla- 
mation, and  the  tightly  drawn  bridles  are  thrown 
on  the  horses'  necks.  Here  we  are,  in  the 
midst  of  nature's  loveliness.  The  broad  level 
summit  of  this  towering  height  is  covered  with 
stately  trees,  which,  as  if  proud  of  their  eleva- 
ted position,  are  lifting  their  heads  still  higher, 
till  they  almost  reach  the  clouds.  But  the 
"  hill "  has  not  an  appropriate  name  ;  surround- 
ed and  covered  by  a  dense  forest,  surely  tliere 
is  no  "  prospect "  here.  Not  quite  so  fast ;  first 
impressions  are  often  false :  there,  there,  and 
there,  are  vistas,  through  which  are  most  ex- 
quisitely disclosed  the  beauties  of  the  far-off 
landscape.  The  glassy  surfaces  of  five  lakes 
are  spread  out  in  different  directions,  and  were 
these  heavy  clouds  swept  from  the  face  of  the 
heavens,  two  more  would  be  visible.  At  the 
base  of  this  almost  moimtain,  on  the  west  side, 
is  a  lovely  plain,  shaded,  and  only  shaded,  with 
oaks ;  and  just  beyond  is  the  largest  lake  in  this 
region,  the  Portage,  seven  miles  long  and  three 
wide.  How  beautiful  it  looks.  There  are  but 
few  rushes  on  its  margin,  and  slippered  feet 
might  step  unharmed  from  the  bank  into  the 
light  canoe  dancing  on  its  bosom.  That  white 
ridge,  just  beyond  the  middle  of  the  lake,  is  a 
sand-bar  which  extends  entirely  across  the  lake, 
with  but  one  opening,  probably  kept  clear  by 
the  current  of  the  waters. 

How  came  the  ridge  in  such  a  place  ?  what 
action  of  the  waters  heaped  up  the  little  grains, 
whose  multitude  form  the  danping  hall  of  the 
Naiades,  till  a  vein  of  pearl  divides  the  emerald 
in  twain  ? 

Swiftly  to  me  the  past  comes  back  again, 
and  busy  imagination  repeoples  this  quiet  spot 
with  the  habitants  that  have  but  just  passed 
away.  There,  on  that  plain  just  below  us,  is 
the  camp-fire  again  built,  and  those  rude  wig- 


296 


SKETCHES    OF    WESTERN    LIFE. 


warns  erected — tlie  dwellings  of  a  day !  Look 
at  that  dusky  mother  bending  over  the  camp- 
kettle,  in  which  she  is  preparing  coarse  food  for 
her  little  ones.  Just  within  that  hut  is  a 
young  mother,  carefully  adjusting  the  bands 
that  fasten  her  first-born  to  the  hard  board,  its 
only  cradle.  Strange  tenderness  this  seems 
to  us  ;  but  are  not  those  upright  forms  some- 
what the  result  of  such  rugged  caresses  ?  By 
yonder  tree,  with  his  right  hand  grasping  the 
trusty  rifle,  stands  the  husband  of  that  young 
wife,  the  proud  father  of  that  wailing  babe. 
In  him,  perchance,  he  sees  the  future  warrior, 
mighty  in  the  battle,  fortunate  in  the  chase, 
and  one  of  those  who  shall  protect  these  favor- 
ite hunting  grounds  from  the  despoiling  tread 
of  the  hated  pale-faces.  See  him  instinctively 
search  for  his  tomahawk  :  at  the  very  thought 
hie  eye  kindles,  and  that  scowl  shows  the  fear- 
ful storm  of  passions  in  his  bosom.  Hark  I  a 
sweet  voice  calls  ;  the  storm  subsides,  and  the 
savage  is  a  man,  with  true  and  loving  heart — 
the  seat  of  all  kindly  affections.  Oh,  the  om- 
nipotence of  love! 

'TIS  night :  torches  are  glaring  and  flashing 
over  the  lake  ;  birch  canoes  are  paddled  swiftly 
to  and  fro,  by  young  maidens,  while  fathers  and 
brothers  sit  in  stately  silence,  unconscious  of 
any  wrong  in  this  unnatural  vassalage.  Now 
they  rest,  and  the  quick  eye  and  true  spear 
rapidly  gather  spoils  from  the  placid  waters. 

Yonder  is  one  canoe  apart  from  the  rest :  look 
closer — two  young  girls  are  its  only  occupants ; 
how  much  engaged  they  seem  with  their  fish- 
ing tackle,  yet  that  paddle  moves  oftener  than 
it  need,  and  the  canoe  is  most  unnaturally  float- 
ing up  stream,  towards  that  little  cove. 

A  bird-like  note  floats  over  the  waters  :  see 
them  start !  now  another,  and  a  low  warble 
from  the  elder  of  the  two  maidens  is  the  le- 
fiponse.  Gradually  they  near  the  cove,  suddenly 
the  torch  is  shaded,  quick  as  thought  the  boat 
touches  Uie  strand,  the  elder  sister  leaps  out, 
and  the  younger  shoves  off';  the  light  appears 
again,  while  'neath  the  shadow  of  yon  "  tryst- 
ing  tree  "  the  beautiful  and  pure-hearted  Indian 
girl,  and  her  dark-browed  lover,  plight  their 
TOWS  of  changeless  fidelity. 

"  Halloa,  the  house  !"  shouted  Mr.  II ; 

and  with  telegraphic  speed  the  Indians  were 
beyond  the  Mississippi,  and  there  were  Mr. 

II and  Helen,  leaning  over  their  horses, 

gazing  in  at  the  open  door  of  a  house  built  on 
this  tip-top  of  all  Michigan — a  building  worth 
describing:  dimensions,  seven  by  nine,  one 


story,  built  of  logs,  minus  roof,  windows,  chim- 
ney, and  inhabitants. 

"  This  magnificent  structure,"  remarked  Mr. 

H ,  "  was  planned  by  a  two  and  sixpenny 

speculator,  for  a  refreshment  house,  when  New 
Saratoga  was  first  settled." 

"  But  where  is  New  Saratoga  ?"  I  inquiied. 

"  Spread  out  before  you,  coz,  in  all  its  beauty, 
on  the  plain  between  us  and  the  lake ;  and 
there,  almost  on  the  very  shore,  is  the  '  White 
Cottage '  I  spoke  of." 

Sure  enough,  there  was  a  little,  uninhabited, 
one-story  building,  with  the  brick  chimney  and 
oven  visible  on  one  side,  while  the  other  side, 
and  one  end,  were  painted  white,  whence  its 
name. 

Oh  how  contemptible  those  two  monuments 
of  human  folly  looked  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
handiwork  of  the  great  Architect !  We  could 
not  laugh  at  such  a  spectacle,  for  we  felt 
ashamed  of  our  own  humanity. 

Large  rain-drops  began  to  fall  now  and  then, 
as  if  admonishing  us  to  take  our  leave  ;  so  we 
gave  heed  to  the  admonition,  descended  the 
hill  on  the  west  side,  crossed  the  site  of  the 
would-be  village,  rounded  the  head  of  the  lake, 
and  galloped  off"  through  the  woods  in  seach  of 
a  tavern  about  two  miles  distant.  The  road 
winding  around  the  foot  of  this  hill,  and  turn- 
ing out  to  avoid  that  little  spot  of  low  ground, 
made  these  Michigan  miles,  as  the  Dutchman 
said,  "  narrow,  but  very  long." 

"  A  river,  with  pure,  deep  waters,  for  me,"  1 
exclaimed,  as  we  came  in  sight  of  a  beautiful 
stream  rushing  along  through  a  little  valley 
just  before  us,  as  if  in  haste  to  reach  the  lake, 
lest  that  great  reservoir  should  be  exhausted. 

"  What !  a  deep  river,  if  you  have  to  ford 
it  .>"  asked  Mr.  H . 

"  But  there's  a  bridge,"  said  I,  pointing  to  a 
rude  causeway  thrown  across  the  stream. 

"  Yes,  an  impassable  one.  Don't  be  so  fidgety, 
girls,  there  is  no  danger,"  he  added,  laughing. 

"  Oh  no  !  Mr.  H was  mistaken ;  we  were 

not  fidgety ;  not  in  the  least  afraid ;  we  would 
love  dearly  to  ford  the  stream — 'twould  be  a 
novelty,  something  worth  boasting  of."  So— 
as  boys  whistle  in  the  dark,  to  keep  their  cour- 
age up— we  were  very  busy,  gathering  up  our 
riding  dresses,  adjusting  caps,  whip  and  bridle, 
for  the  plunge.  Bravely  we  rode  to  the  very 
brink,  but  there  was  a  catching  of  breath,  and 
nervous  grasping  of  the  rein,  as  tlie  sudden 
descent  threw  us  forward  in  tlie  saddle.  "Twaa 
only  momentary ;  the  stream  was  not  deep, 


SKETCHES    OP    WESTERN    LIFE. 


297 


and  we  enjoyed  the  splashing  through  those 
limpid  waters,  more  than  any  other  part  of  the 
ride. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  river  ?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  It  is  the  Portage,  flowing  into  the  lake 
yonder,  which  bears  the  same  name,  you  re- 
member," was  the  reply. 

"  All  ashore !  halloa,  the  house !"  sung  out 
Mr.  H ,  as  we  gained  the  bank. 

"  Where  ?  where  ?"  Oh  yes,  through  the 
woods  yonder,  we  could  descry  the  looked-for 
hotel — that  is,  a  common-sized  log  house,  with 
a  huge  sign  creaking  before  it. 

A  few  minutes'  ride,  and  we  were  alighting, 
while  the  landlord  held  our  horses,  and  the 
usual  knot  of  loungers  were  watching  the  most 
interesting  process  of  dismounting.  Then  the 
horses  were  handed  over  to  the  boys,  and,  "  This 
way,  ladies,"  said  the  unpolished,  but  kind- 
hearted  landlord,  throwing  open  the  door  to  the 

"  square  room."     Mr.  H left  us  to  order 

dinner;  and  we,  throwing  off" our  riding  habits, 
began  to  look  about  for  some  amusement,  while 
said  dinner  was  being  prepared.  There  was 
not  a  book  nor  paper  in  the  room ;  we  were  too 
tired  to  be  sociable  ;  the  dark  clouds  were  rush- 
ing across  the  sky,  and  presently  the  big  rain- 
drops began  to  patter  against  the  little  panes  of 
glass  in  the  two  little  windows,  thus  keeping 
us  within  doors.  The  room,  though  not  large, 
was  clean  ;  the  well-worn  furniture  was  neatly 
dusted,  and  one  could  not  help  feeling  comfort- 
able, though  in  an  unpretending  way. 

"Oh!  here  is  just  what  we  want,"  said 
Helen,  as  her  eye  fell  on  a  gaily  painted  map 
hanging  above  the  mantle-piece. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  H ,  who  was  enter- 
ing the  room,  "that  is  just  what  you  want,  for 
it  is  a  map  of  New  Saratoga." 

"  What !  the  place  we  passed  on  Portage 
plain  ?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  That  same,"  said  Mr.  H ,  laughing. 

We  both  ran  to  the  map,  and,  truly,  there 
was  Saratoga  in  all  its  painted  beauty  !  A  city 
as  large  as  Rochester,  New  York,  with  its 
broad  streets,  and  spacious  squares  ;  its  shady 
parks,  and  gushing  fountains ;  its  splendid 
mansions  and  public  buildings,  and  numerous 
"  spires  pointing  up  toward  heaven ;"  all  spread 
out  to  the  astonished  view !  Here  were  the 
"  mineral  springs,"  that  gave  name  to  the  place ; 
and  there,  just  out  of  the  village,  were  the  mill- 
seats  with  their  astonishing  water-power. 


As  I  gazed  on  this  beautifully  executed  map, 
and  read,  "  hotel  erected,"  "  flouring  mill  in 
progress,"  "  bath  house,"  &c.,  and  listened  to 

Mr.  H 's  account  of  the  manner  in  which 

the  proprietor,  taking  advantage  of  the  times, 
went  to  New  York,  and  actually,  by  his  map 
and  misrepresentations,  succeeded  in  selling 
many  of  these  "  city  lots  ;"  I  thought  how  low 
such  a  man  must  have  descended  in  the  scale 
of  morality,  thus  to  take  advantage  of  his  fel- 
low-man's credulity ;  and  when  there  came 
a  summons  to  dinner,  I  turned  away  from 
that  beautiful  falsehood,  mentally  exclaiming, 
"  Surely,  surely, '  the  love  of  money  is  the  root 
of  all  evil' " 

Discussing  a  well-cooked  dinner,  when  one 
is  hungry,  will  restore  cheerfulness,  though  the 
viands  be  more  substantial  than  delicate.  So 
it  was  with  us :  by  the  time  our  repast  was 
finished,  we  were  chatting  merrily,  and  were 
"  ourselves  again."  Another  hour,  and  the 
clouds  liad  broken  up  their  council,--  brushed 
away  their  tears,  and  were  running  a  swift 
race  along  the  pathway  of  the  sky. 

Mounted,  and  "  homeward  bound,"  we  bade 
adieu  to  the  neat  log  tavern,  and  wended  our 
way  back  again.  In  fording  the  river  on  our 
return,  I  carelessly  allowed  my  horse  to  go 
lower  down  the  stream  than  my  companions, 
who  were  a  little  in  advance  ;  presently  I  saw 

Mr.  H look  back  and  motion  up  stream, 

with  anxiety  on  his  countenance.  Immediately 
reining  my  horse  as  directed,  and  quickening 
his  pace,  I  was  soon  safe  on  the  opposite  bank. 

"  Well,  coz,  you  just  escaped  a  ducking," 

said  Mr.  H ,  drawing  a  long  breath ;  "  very 

neaf  where  you  were  when  I  beckoned,  is  a 
deep  hole,  beyond  your  horse's  depth,  and  a 
martingaled  horse  cannot  swim ;  so  I  expected 
every  moment  to  see  you  go  down." 

"  Yet  I  am  safe,  you  see." 

"  Yes,  but  no  thanks  to  your  own  care  or 
wisdom,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile. 

Merrily,  cheerily,  we  rode  homeward,  except 
when,  for  a  moment,  a  breeze  of  disgust  rippled 
the  sweet  stream  of  happiness,  as  we  passed 
Saratoga  plain. 

The  weary  clouds,  one  after  another,  sank 
away  in  the  east ;  the  sun  shone  out  in  softened 
beauty,  and  when  we  galloped  triumphantly 

through  the  village  of  D ,  a  splendid  sunset 

lit  up  all  the  face  of  the  heavens  with  celestial 
smiles. 


298  THE    SOUL-S    UNREST. 

BY    WM.     OLAND    BOURNE. 

I  HAVE  an  Atheist  in  my  breast 
Who  lurks  within  its  inmost  cell, 

Who  smiles  amid  the  soul's  unrest, 
And  roimd  me  weaves  Abaddon's  spell. 

Whene'er  I  turn  my  eyes  within. 
To  know  the  inmates  dwelling  there, 

I  see  them  all  enslaved  by  Sin, 
Who  softly  spreads  his  glittering  snare. 

I  learned  the  truth  in  years  gone  by. 
When  first  awoke  my  inner  sight, 

And  day-dawn  met  my  shade-filmed  eye. 
That  now  has  scarce  escaped  the  night. 

He  lingers  round  his  secret  place. 

No  power  has  yet  compelled  him  thence, 

Where,  half-subdued,  he  hides  his  face, 
But  makes  a  bold  and  long  defence. 

An  Egypt  was  my  heart  at  first. 

And  plagues  were  there — how  long  they  reign ! 

Its  streams  and  sands  and  stores  accurst 
Made  outer  day  a  galling  chain. 

Bright  things  of  hope  soon  died  away, 
And  left  pale  ashes  in  their  shrine, 

Where,  at  the  altar,  stood  Decay, 
The  oracle  of  dreams  like  mine. 

And  through  the  labyrinth  of  doubt, 
Deep  underground,  like  that  of  old, 

I  strive  to  find  my  pathway  out, 

Where  Faith's  bright  sun  I  might  behold. 

The  first-bom  of  my  heart  was  slain. 

Strong  Love  that  knew  not  death  till  then. 

While  holy  sisters  joined  the  train 
That  hastened  to  their  tomb  again. 

Oh,  that  some  full,  o'erflowing  Nile 
Might  irrigate  the  barren  sands ; 

Then  should  the  verdure  spring  a-while 
Heaven's  guardian  angel  near  me  stands. 

Then,  in  the  Goshen  of  my  soul, 

Bright  beams  of  joy  their  bliss  shall  pour, 

And  lead  mo  where  the  Jordans  roll 
On  holy  Faith's  untroubled  stioro. 


OCOMO. 


299 


©©(DM®  J 

A    TALE    OF    MISSIONARY    LIFE 

BY    KATE    CLEVELAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  a  sun-set  scene  on  the  banks  of  the 
beautiful  Mississippi :  the  majestic  river  was 
rolling  calmly  on,  while  the  ripples   on  its 
bosom  caught  the  golden  rays  of  sunlight,  and 
danced  and  sparkled  in  their  beams.     As  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach  was  one  unbroken  sheet 
of  water,  bordered  with   spots  well  worthy  a 
painter's  pencil ;  but  art  could  never  equal  the 
bright  vivid  green  of  the  velvet  turf,  or  the 
thousand   varied  hues    of  the  blossoms  that 
gemmed  the  vales.     Art  could  not  portray  the 
giant   forms   of  the   grand   old  trees,  whose 
gnarled  and  twisted  roots  were  twined  together 
at  their  base,  with  a  strength  that  defied  human 
power  to  separate  them.    The  very  sky  seemed 
of  a  deeper  blue  than  where  it  canopies  our 
colder  clime  ;    and  the   music  of  birds  was 
heard   in  the  forest.      Upon  the  grass,  their 
broad  forms  resting  against  the  trunks  of  the 
forest  trees,  sat  a  group  of  Indian  warriors. 
Their  rifles  were  lying  idly  before  them,  and 
the  deadly  tomahawk  gleamed  in  their  belts. 
Old  men  and  young  were  there ;  and  the  dusky 
but  gentle  faces  of  the  Indian  women  were 
fixed  in  earnest  attention,  as  they  listened  to 
the  tones  of  the  missionary,  whose  voice  broke 
gently  on  the  stillness  that  reigned  around. 
He  was  apparently  a  middle-aged  man,  and  his 
pale,  meek  countenance  had  a  look  of  suffer- 
ing and  resignation,  while  the  dark  hair  that 
swept  his  brow  was  thickly  threaded  with  silver. 
His  words  were  in  the  Indian  language,  to  the 
study  of  which  he  had  long  applied  himself,  in 
order  to  instruct  the  poor  ignorant  red  men ;  and 
he  spoke  it  with  a  fluency  which  showed  that 
his  labor  had  not  been  in  vain.     He  had  left  a 
pleasant  home  in  the  East  to  take  up  his  abode 
with  the  rude,  untutored  savage  ;  shut  out  from 
his  own  species,  with  no  companion  but  the 
Indian — by  whom  his  life   was  often  threat- 


ened— ^the  devoted  man  steadily  persevered  in 
his  task,  in  spite  of  the  obstacles  that  sur- 
rounded it. 

He  spoke  to  them  of  Jesus — of  His  death  on 
the  cross — and  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  his 
hearers;  while  the  faces  of  the  old  chiefs  were 
bent  forward  with  an  expression  of  wonder, 
curiosity,  and  surprise,  to  hear  "  the  strange 
pale  face,"  as  he  was  called.  That  he  talked 
in  the  Indian  language  as  quickly  and  correctly 
as  themselves,  while  he  spoke  of  another 
"  Great  Spirit,"  puzzled  the  red  men.  Some 
lent  a  willing  ear  to  his  affecting  truths,  and 
wished  to  hear  more  from  the  great  book; 
while  others  observed  the  white  man's  influ- 
ence with  jealousy,  and  regarded  their  more 
believing  companions  with  contempt.  The 
missionary's  heart  often  failed  him ;  but  he 
was  not  one  to  be  easily  discouraged  from  the 
path  of  duty,  and,  seeking  strength  from  the 
throne  of  grace,  he  proceeded  with  renewed 
vigor. 

The  missionary  had  often  noticed,  among 
his  hearers,  an  Indian  youth  of  strange  appear- 
ance. His  eyes  were  always  earnestly  fixed 
upon  the  speaker,  and  nothing  could  divert  his 
attention.  His  brow  was  often  wreathed  with 
wild  blossoms,  and  his  large  dark  eyes  had  an 
unsettled  expression ;  while  his  finely-cut  fea- 
tures always  wore  a  look  of  the  deepest  mel- 
ancholy. His  manners  were  quiet  and  sub- 
dued— so  different  from  the  other  Indians,  that 
the  missionary  felt  interested  in  the  youth ;  and 
turn  where  he  would,  those  sad  dark  eyes  were 
continually  before  him,  with  a  fixed,  though 
gentle  gaze.  In  answer  to  his  inquiries,  he 
learned  that  the  boy's  name  was  Ocomo,  the 
son  of  Undega,  a  powerful  chief,  and  one  of 
those  most  strongly  opposed  to  him. 

From  his  earliest  childhood  the  young  Ocomo 
had  found  himself  an  object  of  contempt  to  his 
tribe.     His  mind  was  unsettled :  at  times  he 


300 


OCOMO. 


would  have  all  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and 
laugh  and  gambol  in  his  vacant  glee  ;  and  then 
again  his  insanity  assumed  a  higher  order,  and 
he  would  fancy  himselfconversing  with  spirits; 
while  the  words  that  fell  from  his  lips,  at  such 
times,  were  strangely  wild  and  irregular.  His 
love  for  flowers  amounted  to  a  passion  ;  and  he 
would  express  the  wildest  joy  at  the  sight  of  a 
rare  blossom,  or  a  cluster  of  early  violets.  The 
Bonl  of  Ocomo  was  deeply  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  poetry  :  in  summer  he  sought  the  most 
retired  parts  of  the  forest,  and,  seated  by  some 
limpid  stream,  gazed  with  silent  pleasure  on 
the  sunlight  that  streamed  through  the  open- 
ing glades ;  while  a  hushed  and  joyous  feeling 
stole  over  him,  and  ho  would  see  bright  forms 
flit  by  him,  and  hear  the  gushing  melody  of 
unseen  songsters.  Poor  boy !  he  was  happy 
in  his  insanity.  As  the  rich  and  gorgeous 
sunset  burst  upon  his  view,  he  gazed  upon  the 
rosy-tinted  clouds  with  awe,  and  longed  to  see 
that  spirit-land  whence  all  things  beautiful 
seem  to  emanate.  As  the  evening  wore  on  he 
would  steal  from  the  wigwam  to  gaze  upon  the 
star-gemmed  heavens ;  and  solitude  had  a  pe- 
culiar charm  for  him,  for  he  could  people  it 
with  beings  of  his  fancy.  The  warriors  re- 
garded him  with  contempt ;  he  could  not  join 
the  hunt ;  could  not  fix  the  deadly  arrow,  and 
display  the  scalp  of  a  slaughtered  enemy,  or 
bring  home  a  supply  of  venison.  They  nick- 
named him  the  woman-boy,  and  sneers,  taunts, 
and  revilings  followed  his  footsteps ;  for  the 
rude  savages  despised  a  mind  that  found  plea- 
sure in  flowers — trifles  which  the  heavy  foot  of 
the  Indian  would  crush  in  his  path,  rather  than 
stoop  to  pluck  the  bright-hued  blossoms  ;  for 
his  eye  is  never  arrested  by  their  modest  beauty : 
it  is  generally  fixed  on  the  crouching  form  of 
some  hidden  foe,  or  panting  deer,  gasping  its 
Ust  breath  in  its  eflbrta  to  elude  the  pursuers. 

It  galled  the  proud  spirit  of  the  old  chief  to 
see  his  only  son  an  object  of  contempt ;  and 
smotheringall  feelings  of  tenderness  towards  the 
UDoflTending  boy,  he  spoke  sternly  and  harshly 
to  him,  and  never  could  endure  his  presence. 

But  his  mother  loved  him ;  she  was  not 
ashamed  of  her  unfortunate  son  ;  and  the  ten- 
der heart  of  Ocomo  clung  to  her  as  the  only 
being  that  cared  for  him.  He  would  load  his 
mother  with  affectionate  caresses,  delighted  at 
having  something  to  love  ;  and  the  rarest  flow- 
ers and  brightcst-hued  berries  were  always  for 
her.  Sometimes  her  warm  tears  fell  upon  his 
(kce ;  and  Ocomo  would  exclaim,  in  surprise — 


'•  Why  do  you  cry,  mother  ?  Ocomo  is  happy." 
But  she  only  answered  with  her  tears ;  and  the 
affectionate  boy  would  lay  his  cheek  to  hers 
and  kiss  away  the  drops  that  trembled  on  the 
fringed  lids. 

When  the  missionary  first  appeared  among 
his  people,  Ocomo  listened  to  his  words  with 
surprise  and  pleasure,  and  a  new  light  stole 
into  his  mind.  He  went  home  and  told  his 
mother ;  and  she  too  came,  and  listened  eagerly. 
But  the  wrath  of  Undega  burned  fiercely 
against  the  intruder ;  and  only  in  secret  could 
they  talk  of  the  promises  and  invitations  which 
the  good  man  read  from  the  Bible.  At  length 
Ocomo  noticed,  with  alarm,  his  mother's  sunken 
cheeks  and  feeble  steps,  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  failing  daily.  Throwing  himself  on  her 
bosom,  he  besought  her  not  to  leave  him,  and 
murmured,  "  I  have  no  one  but  you  !"  But  the 
arrow  of  the  destroyer  had  sunk  into  her 
heart,  and  she  smiled  sadly,  as  she  replied  : 

"  I  am  going,  Ocomo,  to  the  spirit-land  of  the 
pale  face.  When  I  am  cold  and  stiff,  tell  him 
that  I  died  in  faith." 

When  her  breath  had  indeed  ceased  forever, 
the  poor  boy  threw  himself  on  the  body,  and  his 
cries  and  sobs  were  heart-rending.  He  refused 
to  believe  that  his  mother  was  dead.  "  She 
would  not  leave  me  alone  !"  he  cried ;  "  I  know 
she  will  come  back  I" 

But  they  tore  him  from  her,  and  Ocomo  saw 
them  bury  his  mother  in  the  cold  ground. 


CHAPTER   n. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  early  fall. 
The  forest-trees  had  a  slight  golden  tinge,  and 
the  breeze  blew  clear  and  refreshing;  while 
not  a  single  cloud  dimmed  the  blue  sky.  The 
birds  were  filling  the  air  with  their  melody ; 
and  here  and  there  a  cluster  of  dark-red  berries 
rested  against  the  rich  leaves,  with  the  dew- 
drops  glistening  in  the  sunshine.  In  the  midst 
of  the  forest  there  was  a  small  space  of  cleared 
land,  which  surrounded  the  missionar}''8  cabin. 
The  hand  of  improvement  was  visible  in  the 
little  spot;  and  the  tangled  underwood  had 
given  place  to  the  bright  green  turf.  The 
cabin  was  small,  and  divided  into  two  apart- 
ments, embowered  in  climbing  vines,  which 
gave  it  a  pretty  and  picturesque  appearance. 
The  little  plat  of  ground  had  been  cultivated 
with  care,  and  vegetables,  in  abundance,  re- 


OCOMO. 


301 


warded  the  laborer's  toil.  Plants  and  flow- 
ers, of  New  England  origin,  mingled  their 
blossoms  with  the  brighter  ones  of  western 
birth  ;  and  over  all  was  thrown  an  air  of  refine- 
ment. To  a  mind  fond  of  solitude,  a  more  per- 
fect little  paradise  could  hardly  be  imagined  ; 
but  the  eye  grows  weary  of  the  loveliest  scenes 
when  the  heart  longs  for  sympathy — for  com- 
panion>!hip.  The  interior  was  neat,  and  well 
arranged :  a  small  piece  of  carpet  covered  the 
floor,  and  a  clean  white  curtain  hung  at  the 
window.  A  hanging  book-case  rested  against 
the  side  of  the  apartment,  and  the  shelves 
were  filled  with  well-used  volumes.  A  few 
wooden  chairs,  a  table,  and  large  chest,  with 
one  or  two  cooking  utensils,  composed  the  fur- 
niture ;  and  the  sunlight,  which  streamed  in, 
and  danced  upon  the  wall,  imparted  an  air  of 
cheerfulness  to  the  small  room.  The  cabin 
door  was  open,  and  the  missionary  sat  there 
reading ;  while  every  now  and  then  he  raised 
his  head,  and  listened  to  the  music  of  the  birds, 
or  the  stealthy  steps  of  some  wild  animal. 
The  least  rustling  of  the  bushes  attracted  his 
attention  ;  for,  in  a  lonely  forest,  with  no  com- 
panion but  your  own  thoughts,  the  slightest 
sound  is  magnified  into  something  of  impor- 
tance. The  missionary  was  not  a  fearful  man ; 
he  daily  received  strength  from  the  book  upon 
his  knee ;  his  lamp  was  trimmed  and  burning, 
and  he  felt  ready  to  depart :  but  his  work  was 
not  yet  done,  and  from  frequent  surprises  he 
had  learnt  to  defend  himself.  He  was  aware 
of  the  dislike  entertained  towards  him  by  some 
of  the  Indian  chiefs,  and  it  warned  him  to  be 
upon  his  guard.  The  bushes  crackled  around 
him  ;  the  birds  flew  frightened  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  there  was  a  noise  as  •  of  advancing 
footsteps.  An  Indian  youth,  with  pale,  haggard 
countenance,  restless  eyes,  and  head  fantasti- 
cally wreathed  with  flowers,  bounded  forward, 
and  stood  before  the  missionary.  It  was  Oco- 
mo.  In  surprise  the  good  man  gazed  upon  the 
strange  form  before  him  ;  and  from  his  altered 
appearance,  he  had  some  difficulty  in  recogniz- 
ing him.  Grief  for  his  mother's  death  had  preyed 
upon  the  mind  of  Ocomo,  and  reduced  him 
almost  to  a  skeleton ;  he  had  abandoned  his 
father's  wigwam,  and  sought  the  forest,  where 
he  had,  for  several  days,  tasted  nothing  but  the 
wild  berries  and  nuts  that  grew  there  in  abun- 
dance. The  missionary  was  moved  by  his 
forlorn  appearance,  and  in  a  kind  tone  inquired 
the  reason. 

Ocomo  gazed  fearfully  around  as  if  dreading 


the  approach  of  some  one,  and  then  bending 
closer  to  the  missionary,  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  They  have  taken  her  from  me — laid  her 
in  the  damp  ground,  and  Ocomo  has  now  no 
friend — no  one  to  love  him.  She  would  lav  my 
head  upon  her  bosom  and  speak  kindly  to  me. 
Ocomo  loved  her,  and  now  she  is  gone  !" 

The  boy's  grief  broke  forth  in  sobs,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  grass,  he  wept 
aloud.  His  kind  friend  was  silent,  though  his 
countenance  expressed  pity  and  interest  for  the 
poor  youth.  But  the  tears  were  an  evidence 
of  his  returning  reason  ;  the  wild  restless  look 
had  depart?  J  from  his  eyes,  and,  as  though 
awaking  f.om  a  long  dream,  Ocomo  wept  bit- 
terly. 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me  where  she  is !"  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  I  have  sought  her  many  days — and 
see,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  flowers,  "  I 
gathered  them  for  her.  She  loved  their  bright 
colors  ;  but  did  they  not  take  her  away  ?"  and 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  as  though  trying 
to  recollect  some  long-forgotten  tale.  "  I  know 
you  will  tell  me  where  she  is,"  said  the  boy,  "for 
the  voice  of  the  pale-face  fell  on  Ocomo's  ear 
like  the  sound  of  sweet  music.  Ocomo  loves 
the  white  man." 

The  missionary  gently  raised  the  youth,  and 
bore  him  into  the  cabin.  Here  he  strove  by 
soothing  words  to  gain  the  boy's  confidence  ; 
and  like  a  dimly-remembered  dream  the  events 
rushed  upon  Ocomo's  mind.  He  told  the  kind- 
hearted  man  of  his  mother's  last  words,  and 
the  jnissionary  breathed  an  inward  prayer,  as 
he  heard  the  words,  "  I  die  in  faith."  There 
was  at  least  one  soul  redeemed  from  the  dark- 
ness that  surrounded  it ;  and  in  glowing  colors 
he  represented  to  the  bereaved  youth  his  moth- 
er's happiness  above.  Tears  streamed  down 
his  pale  cheeks,  as  he  listened  ;  but  when  the 
missionary  told  him  that  his  mother  was  now 
happier  than  she  had  ever  been  on  earth,  his 
grief  became  less  violent.  "  She  happy — Oco- 
mo happy,"  he  murmured ;  and  when  the  good 
man  said  that  he  would  see  her  again  if  he 
obeyed  the  great  book,  Ocomo  fell  at  his  feet 
and  embraced  his  knees  in  the  fullness  of  his 
joy.  The  poor  boy  needed  rest,  and  the  mis- 
sionary laid  him  tenderly  on  his  own  bed,  and 
bade  him  try  to  sleep.  The  grateful  Ocomo 
closed  his  weary  lids,  and  worn  out  with  his 
exposure  and  fatigue,  soon  fell  into  a  refreshing 
slumber.  The  missionary  watched  by  the  side 
of  the  sleeper  to  cool  his  fevered  brow,  and 
heard  him  murmur  several  times,  while  a  smile 


302 


oc6mo. 


of  pleasure  beamed  on  his  face,  "  I  shall  see 
her  again !" 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  his  kind  nurse,  "  we  know 
not  how  soon." 


CHAPTER  m. 

When  Ocomo  awoke,  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
were  gilding  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees,  and 
shone  in  on  his  narrow  bed.  The  missionary 
was  spreading  his  frugal  repast ;  but  on  meet- 
ing the  wandering  eyes  of  the  Indian  boy,  he 
sat  down  by  his  bedside,  and  gently  taking  his 
hand,  asked  him  how  he  had  slept.  Ocomo 
gazed  wonderingly  on  the  speaker,  and  then,  as 
if  comprehending  his  situation,  burst  into  tears. 
His  benefactor  quietly  withdrew  to  let  him  in- 
dulge his  grief  without  restraint,  and  kneeling 
in  the  silent  grove,  he  offered  up  a  prayer  for 
the  Indian  boy.  On  his  return,  Ocomo  knelt 
at  his  feet,  and  begged  him  not  to  send  him 
him  away ! 

"  Ocomo  will  be  your  slave — anything  !"  said 
he;  "only  do  not  send  him  away!  Ocomo 
knows  where  the  maple  yields  its  richest  juice 
— where  the  wild  roots  grow  the  thickest — and 
he  will  bring  the  brightest  flowers  to  adorn  the 
white  man's  dwelling.  Ocomo  loves  to  hear 
from  the  great  book  of  that  bright  land  where 
his  mother  has  gone  :  do  not  send  him  away !" 

The  missionary  was  moved  to  tears  by  this 
appeal,  and  promised  that  he  should  remain. 
The  poor  boy  flew  to  perform  a  thousand  little 
offices  for  his  benefactor,  and  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  he  could  be  I'estrained. 

After  this,  his  grief  subsided  into  melancholy, 
and  his  mind  seemed  clear  and  settled.  The 
missionary  strove  to  make  him  understand  the 
glorious  truths  of  the  Bible,  and  was  encour- 
aged by  his  pupil's  mildness  and  diligence.  No 
one  could  be  more  devoted  than  the  grateful 
Ocomo ;  he  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he 
could  anticipate  his  benefactor's  wishes ;  and 
he  watched  each  movement  and  expression  of 
his  countenance,  so  that  he  knew  almost  by 
instinct  what  he  wanted.  The  lonely  man  be- 
gan to  love  the  Indian  youth ;  and  there  was 
a  band  between  them,  that  knit  tli-ur  hearts 
strongly  together.  Both  were  desolate — away 
from  all  but  each  other;  though  with  poor 
Ocomo,  Uicre  was  no  one  else  he  had  ever 
lovod,  except  his  mother,  and  she  was  now 
gone.    No  two  beings  could  be  more  strongly 


attached  :  the  knowledge  of  conferring  happi- 
ness on  one  side,  and  a  sense  of  the  deepest 
gratitude  on  the  other,  kept  this  feeling  con- 
stantly alive. 

The  missionary  amused  Ocomo  with  stories 
of  his  early  home,  and  answered  all  his  numer- 
ous inquiries  about  the  customs  of  the  whites. 
The  boy  listened  eagerly,  and  never  interrupt- 
ed the  speaker  till  he  had  ceased  ;  then,  in  a 
tone  of  disappointment,  he  would  ask  if  that 
were  the  .end.  The  missionary  wondered  at 
the  interest  he  manifested  in  the  manners  of 
the  East,  but  attributed  it  to  gratitude.  One 
night,  after  they  had  retired  to  rest,  Ocomo 
cautiously  rose,  and  proceeded  to  dress  himself. 
Ilis  companion,  surprised  at  his  cautiousness, 
and  apparent  wish  not  to  be  perceived,  lay 
quietly  noticing  him,  till  he  observed  the  boy 
open  the  door  and  leave  the  cabin ;  when  he 
rose,  and  throwing  on  his  clothes,  hastened 
after  him,  for  he  feared  that  Ocomo  had  been 
seized  with  one  of  his  insane  fits,  and  might 
meditate  putting  an  end  to  his  life.  From  long 
association  with  the  Indians,  the  missionary 
had  learned  to  imitate  their  cautious  habits, 
and  his  tread  was  as  light  as  that  of  any  wily 
savage,  as  he  followed  the  footsteps  of  Ocomo. 
The  boy  walked  on  for  some  time,  through  the 
mazes  of  the  forest,  but  at  length  he  paused  by 
a  small  cleared  space,  and  kneeling  on  the 
ground  beside  it,  he  hung  a  wreath  of  wild 
flowers  at  its  head.  It  was  his  mother's  grave. 
The  missionary  was  touched  by  this  token  of 
respect  to  the  dead  from  a  poor  Indian  boy — 
it  reminded  him  of  a  grave  in  his  New  England 
home — of  his  mother's  grave,  which  he  had 
strewn  with  flowers,  the  night  before  his  depart- 
ure. This,  then,  was  why  Ocomo  had  ques- 
tioned him  so  closely  respecting  the  New 
England  customs  for  the  dead — he  wished  to 
pay  a  tribute  to  his  mother's  memory !  Ocomo 
then  prayed  aloud  in  his  simple  but  expressive 
language ;  he  prayed  that  blessings  might 
descend  on  the  head  of  his  benefactor;  and 
hastily  retracing  his  steps,  the  missionary  was 
apparently  buried  in  slumber  on  the  boy's 
return. 

The  father  of  Ocomo  said  nothing  at  his 
son's  departure,  and  apparently  cared  not  that 
he  took  up  his  residence  with  the  missionary. 
But  while  all  was  calm  without,  within  the 
evil  passions  of  his  Indian  nature  were  raging. 
Though  his  son  had  ever  been  to  him  an  object 
of  shame,  yet  he  was  his  son,  and  Undcga  re- 
ga'dcd  with  hatred  the  white  man,  who  (ho 


OCOMO. 


303 


supposed)  had  lured  Ocomo  from  his  wigwam. 
lie  was  jealous  of  the  influence  which  the 
mild  conduct  and  obliging  disposition  of  the 
missionary  had  gained  over  the  Indians,  and  he 
vowed  his  destruction. 

An  assemblage  of  the  chiefs  was  called,  and 
when  the  calumet  had  passed  around,  Undega 
rose  and  said :  "  Brethren,  shall  this  white  man 
twine  himself  like  a  serpent  round  tlie  hearts 
of  our  people,  that  in  their  unsuspecting  blind- 
ness he  may  sting  them  the  more  easily  ?  Is 
his  look  to  be  more  regarded  than  the  words  of 
our  Great  Spirit  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  he  has 
made  squaws  of  our  warriors — that  they  no 
longer  excel  in  the  chase — no  longer  wear  tlie 
scalps  of  their  enemies,  but  gather  round  the 
pale  face,  to  hear  his  words,  and  carry  them  in 
their  hearts  ?  Rouse,  warriors  !  Shake  off 
these  binding  fetters,  and  drive  the  pale  face 
back  to  his  own  people  !" 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  Undega  !;ad 
thus  boldly  spoken.  Most  of  the  Indians  liked 
the  unoffending  wliite  man,  and  some  of  them 
were  hopeful  converts  to  the  Christian  faith. 
But  Undega  was  a  powerful  chief,  and  they 
feared  to  displease  him  ;  for  they  could  read  the 
threatening  spirit  that  gleamed  in  his  fieiy  eye, 
and  curled  the  distended  nostril :  it  was  ever 
thus  when  an  enemy  crossed  his  path,  and  they 
knew  not  what  to  reply.  At  length,  the  oldest 
chief  arose  with  the  following  words :  "  My- 
brother  has  spoken  well.  Let  the  words  of 
Undega  sink  into  the  hearts  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  not  be  as  though  breathed  upon  the 
air.  Let  the  white  man  return  to  his  peo- 
ple, as  my  brother  has  said."  The  counte- 
nance of  Undega  gleamed  with  triumph  ;  for 
h.2  thought  not  of  his  own  harshness  to  Ocomo ; 
he  remembered  not  how  he  had  repulsed  his 
son's  affection,  and  often  driven  him  to  seek 
shelter  in  his  mother's  bosom ;  he  regarded  the 
missionary  as  the  cause  of  his  son's  estrange- 
ment, and  resolved  to  gratify  his  revenge.  The 
group  continued  silent,  and  soon  the  missionary 
approached.  Undega's  countenance  assumed 
an  expression  of  hatred,  and  the  good  man, 
astonished  at  the  silence  that  reigned  among 
them,  sought  to  discover  the  cause.  He  was 
not  long  ignorant ;  his  quick  perception  enabled 
him  to  read  the  countenances  before  him,  but 
his  calm  self-possession  never  deserted  him. 
He  spoke  to  them  of  the  trials  he  had  endured 
for  their  sakes— of  the  interest  he  felt  for  their 
souls — and  of  his  total  unconsciousness  of  the 
cause  that   moved  Undeca  to  this  injustice. 


"Give  me  back  my  son  !"  exclaimed  the  chief. 
"  Did  you  not  lure  him  from  me,  and  now  in- 
quire the  cause  of  my  hatred  ?"  said  he,  as  his 
lip  curled  with  scorn. 

"  Oh,  do  not  send  me  from  you  !"  whispered 
Ocomo. 

"I  used  no  arts  to  lure  him,"  replied  the 
missionary  ;  "  he  came  of  his  own  free  will ; 
and  should  he  himself  wish  it,  I  am  ready  to 
restore  him  to  his  father." 

"  Oh,  do  not  give  me  up  to  him  !"  said  poor 
Ocomo.  "  See  how  his  eyes  glare !  He  will 
kill  me !" 

Ocomo  clung  close  to  the  missionary,  and 
with  a  bitter  smile  of  malice,  Undega  departed. 


CHAPTER  rv. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  above  scene,  that 
the  missionary  noticed  a  change  in  Ocomo ;  he 
spoke  not  unless  addressed,  and  his  looks  were 
melancholy.  Now  and  then  a  smile  flitted 
across  his  face,  but  it  quickly  faded  away.  He 
would  sit  abstractedly,  and  seem  to  be  talking 
to  himself.  The  missionary  observed  him  with 
concern,  for  he  knew  how  deep  would  be  his 
loss  should  anything  befall  Ocomo.  The  boy 
had  wound  himself  so  closely  round  his  heart, 
that  he  felt  as  though  he  could  not  part  with 
him. 

"  Let  us  walk  out  into  the  forest,  Ocomo," 
said  he  tenderly;  "  the  air  will  do  you  good,  for 
I  think  you  are  not  well." 

"  We  will  go,"  replied  the  boy;  "  'tis  the  last 
time," 

"  The  last  time !  What  mean  you,  Oco- 
mo ?  What  strange  fancy  has  entered  your 
mind  ?" 

The  boy  smiled  sadly,  and  placed  his  hand 
on  his  heart :  "  Ocomo  dreamed  last  night  of 
the  spirit-land.  His  mother  beckoned  him  to 
her,  and  he  must  go.  When  another  moon  has 
waned,  Ocomo  will  sleep  beside  her." 

"Ocomo,"  replied  the  missionary  sternly, 
"  have  I  not  often  told  you  how  wicked  it  is  to 
gaze  forward  into  the  future,  and  try  to  deci- 
pher that  which  is  hid  from  our  view  ?  Shake 
off  this  feeling  ;  'tis  but  the  consequence  of  an 
idle  dream." 

Ocomo  shook  his  head  mournfully  as  he  said, 
"  I  feel  it  here."  The  missionary  was  sad  :  in 
spite  of  hi.s  contempt  for  all  superstition,  it 
made  him  melancholy  to  hear  Ocomo  talk  so 


304 


OCOMO. 


calmly  of  his  fate.  The  two  walked  on  for 
some  time  in  deep  thought ;  not  a  sound  was 
heard  in  the  forest,  save  the  twittering  of  the 
birds,  or  the  rustling  of  a  leaf— when  suddenly 
a  slight,  whirring  sound  fel.  on  the  ear  of  the 
missionary.  At  the  same  instant,  Ocomo 
threw  himself  forward  and  received  an  arrow 
in  his  heart .'  A  piercing  scream  rose  on  the 
air,  but  it  came  not  from  the  wounded  boy — it 
was  Undega,  who  had  slain  his  son  !  The  de- 
voted boy  lieard  the  fatal  sound  of  the  arrow, 
ere  it  flew  from  the  bow,  and  shielding  his 
benefactor,  proved  his  gratitude  with  his  life. 
The  missionary  stood  transfixed  with  horror, 
and  the  unhappy  father  knelt  beside  the  boy, 
from  whose  breast  the  warm  life-blood  was 
slowly  welling.  Undega  had  watched  this  op- 
portunity to  revenge  himself  on  the  missionary, 
and  had  not  Ocomo  sprung  forward,  too  surely 
had  the  arrow  reached  its  mark.  A  faint  pur- 
ple tinge  was  eettUng  round  the  eyes  of  the 


dying  youth,  and  his  breath  came  slower  and 
fainter.  With  his  head  pillowed  on  the  mis- 
sionary's bosom,  he  breathed  his  last,  murmur- 
ing, "  I  go  to  her — farewell."  The  missionary 
thought  not  of  the  wrongs  he  had  received 
from  Undega ;  he  saw  not  a  malicious  enemy 
before  him  ;  he  saw  only  an  unhappy  father — 
a  miserable  man  ;  and,  subduing  his  own  grief, 
he  tried  to  offer  consolation. 

The  missionary  was  hereafter  accompanied 
by  an  Indian  of  aged  appearance ;  his  hair 
was  white,  and  his  brow  furrowed ;  but  they 
whispered  that  grief  and  remorse  had  bleached 
his  hair,  and  marked  his  brow.  It  was  Undega. 
His  strong  heart  was  touched  by  the  mild  and 
forgiving  spirit  of  the  missionary,  and  over  the 
grave  of  the  murdered  boy,  a  compact  was 
made  between  them,  which  lasted  till  death  re- 
lieved Undega  of  his  weight  of  crime.  The 
missionary  soothed  his  last  moments,  and  enter- 
tained hopes  of  his  sincere  penitence. 


lU   UoUVO 


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